


Unbending

by EverythingCounts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ...or is it?, And really this moves forward really slow, BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Sansa Stark, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Idiots in Love, Like all the Starks are idiots in love, Mainly Jonsa but as it turns out featuring Gendrya, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Jon Snow, Political Marriage, Politics, Rating May Change, Scheming, Shamelessly pro Stark and anti Targaryen, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, The big reveal has some consequences, Until 8x4 and then it goes full AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingCounts/pseuds/EverythingCounts
Summary: As girls they would have either swooned or scoffed about the story of a secret prince, the true heir to the Iron Throne, hidden in the North. Now though, Sansa and Arya see an opportunity to keep their beloved brother - no, cousin - save at home with the pack, and to take back what the North and House Stark have fought for so long. Independence.But time is running, the preparations for the march South almost complete, and then not only their freedom, but Jon Snow would be lost to them, both lost to the queen they so despise. So, the last of the Starks take a chance risking all, unbending, to win the game.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 118
Kudos: 514





	1. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,
> 
> I know, it's been over a year, but try as I might, I just can't forget how they glossed over the big reveal of Jon's true identity. So, I had this story in my head since then, and decided to just start writing. It starts when the Starks meet in the Godswood, so the dialogue from that scene is the same from the show. But with insights from Jon's POV, which could be canon or not, who knows, since we didn't get any from him for pretty much two freaking seasons. Anyway, then it will deviate massively from canon then on.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my take on this.

Death hangs in the air, the smell of burned flesh and decay still follows Jon everywhere he goes, and he wonders if he will ever again breathe in the clean freshness of the Northern winds. He sees them already waiting by the Weirwood tree, Sansa and Arya looking as miffed as expected, while Bran seems as unaffected as so often lately. Jon is already tired of the conversation that lies ahead. Yes, it's too soon, yes, the men are not ready for the long march south through winter, not ready to fight another battle so soon. If he could, he wouldn't leave his bed for at least a moon to get some proper rest, to shake off the almost overwhelming fatigue. Alas, he blew it with Daenerys after the feast, and now all he can do is to obey as she commands, and hope for the best.

When he halts in front of his siblings – cousins, no, siblings, because no one can know –, he keeps a distance. The place is perfect to speak undisturbed from prying eyes and ears, but it's the worst if one isn't sure if only the truth will be told. Better safe than sorry, Jon thinks, quickly glancing to the face carved on the white bark.

“You understand we’d all be dead if not for her,” he starts, unable to hide his frustration. “We’d be corpses marching down to King’s Landing.” It's better they get used to hear that, because it surely will be how she's going to tell the story. Daenerys called Arya the hero of Winterfell, rightly so, but most likely just in an attempt to please the northern lords. Jon suspects that's not what the generations to come will learn in their history lessons. Then, there will only be one hero, and she has born dragons in the midst of flames to save them all. 

“Arya’s the one that killed the Night King,” Sansa retorts, as if he wouldn't know it. 

And maybe they could have defeated the Others only with Arya hiding in the shadows and Bran as bait, but it's futile to wonder about what ifs. When he left for Dragonstone both seemed lost to them, and so he did what he thought was their only chance of survival. Besides, there's no denying that the additional men and the dragon fire helped to make a difference. “Her men gave their lives defending Winterfell-”

“And we will never forget them. That doesn’t mean that I want to kneel to someone who-”

“I swore myself and the North to her cause!” 

“I respect that,” Arya states, and it doesn't surprise only Jon.

“You respect it?” Sansa asks incredulous.

“We needed her,” Arya explains, her gaze turning back to Jon. “We needed her army, her dragons. You did the right thing. And we’re doing the right thing telling you we don’t trust your queen.”

“You don’t know her yet,” he replies, and perhaps he should've said that they don't know yet how thin the thread their lives are hanging by already is. It has been unsettling how Daenerys seemed to blame him for the lack of devotion the Northerners are showing her. He warned her again and again that they don't trust outsiders, but of course she must have believed that they will be as devout as all her followers, once they've seen how special she is. The celebration must have been a rude awakening, and he really should've paid her more attention instead of having fun with his friends and family, and getting sloshed.

“I’ll never know her. She’s not one of us.”

She certainly isn't, and he even told her as much in his inebriated state. Perhaps that was a mistake, too. Another what if. “If you only trust the people you grew up with, you won’t make many allies.”

“That’s all right. I don’t need many allies.”

You do when you want to protect your home and those closest to the heart against an unconquerable foe, no matter how painful the consequences. “Arya-”

“We’re family. The four of us. The last of the Starks.”

The last of the Starks, and it shouldn't matter, it shouldn't hurt, but it does. “I’ve never been a Stark,” Jon almost whispers, and both Sansa and Arya are quick to object, despite their frustrations with him, and it warms his heart.

“You are. You’re just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us.”

“You’re my brother. Not my half-brother or my bastard brother. My brother.”

Whatever will happen in the South, however long this borrowed life will last, he knows he'll die grateful for the family Ned has given him. Who would he have become if he'd grown up in Essos with her and her vicious brother? Jon's eyes squint shut for a moment, before he glances at Bran.

“It’s your choice,” he says, answering the question Jon hasn't asked but pondered about the whole night instead of sleeping. Is a name he has no use for worth risking Daenerys’ wrath? She has told him unmistakable how they can live in peace together, and yet, he finds that yes, it is worth it. Too many lies have been told, and he wants them to know. He wants their assurance that he is still part of the pack, that he is still theirs and not hers. “I need to tell you something. But you have to swear you’ll never tell another soul.”

“What is it?” Arya asks instantly.

“You have to swear it, before I tell you.”

“How can I promise to keep a secret if I don’t even know what it is?” Sansa asks, as always testing his patience. 

“Because we’re family!” Jon calls out. “Swear it.”

“I swear it,” Arya vows.

“I swear it,” Sansa repeats.

In an unexpected stroke of genius Jon turns to Bran, “Tell them.” Daenerys most likely won't care for the distinction, would recognise the loophole for what it is, but at least he can say in all honesty that he didn't spill the secret. She hasn't commanded Bran to keep quiet. Yet.

As he shares the truth of his parentage, Arya and Sansa stare at their little brother as if he speaks in riddles. It's still quite surreal to think that this is the story of his parents, of how he came to be. At first, he liked the idea of star-crossed lovers, until he remembered what truly happened. His grandfather and uncle were killed by the Mad King – his other grandfather, which is confusingly fucked up – simply for demanding justice for their daughter and sister, thousands of innocent people lost their lives during Robert's Rebellion, and almost worst of all, Elia Martell and her two children, his half-siblings, first disgraced and abandoned by Rhaegar, and then murdered most monstrously. It makes Jon sick to his stomach. It's not a love story, it's a story about utter selfishness.

Bran reaches the end of the tale, and suddenly Jon is worried. Will they see him differently now? In nervous anticipation his heart begins to beat faster, and drops when Arya and Sansa simultaneously turn from their brother to face him, eyes so wide as if he's a strange creature which just emerged from the black water of the pool. It would be quite amusing, if he wouldn't be so tense and if the silence wouldn't stretch so uncomfortably.

Arya catches herself first, and declares with a shrug, “You're still my brother. It changes nothing.” 

He releases the breath he hasn't noticed he held with a relieved smile. But Sansa's still quiet and gazes intensely at him, a frown on her forehead which seems to deepen with every moment that passes.

“Sansa,” Arya hisses low, and at last it brings her sister out of her stupor.

“You're the true heir then.”

It hurts. Jon hoped she would say that she still loves him, too, but instead she doesn't waste any time to get to the heart of the problem. “I don't want it,” he replies tersely.

“Regardless, you do have a better claim to the Iron Throne than she.”

“I've bent the knee,” he says, as if Sansa of all people needs to be reminded. He'll leave soon, he doesn't know if he survives or if he'll be allowed to return home, he doesn't know if he'll ever see them again. Jon's exhausted, and all he wants, all she's supposed to do is to assure him of his place in her family, and not to dwell upon the fact that separates him from her, from them.

“You've told us, you did so because you had the choice to either keep your crown or to save the North. What did you mean by that?” 

“Has she threatened you or the North if you wouldn't kneel?” Arya asks when he keeps quiet, her eyes glinting darkly, as if she's ready to rip Daenerys’ face off. Damn it, he thinks and sighs, gazing up to the sky. This won't end well.

“She did, didn't she?” Sansa says, before a word can leave his mouth. “Why should we be grateful when she forced our King to bend the knee to save his people? Why should we follow her now, if she wouldn't have helped us unless we give up the one thing she claims to fight for? What is your queen truly? A liberator or an oppressor?”

“Please-," Jon feebly tries to stop their interrogation, but they aren't done yet with poking holes into the web of lies he has spun around ‘his queen’, and he feels backed into a corner as they begin to understand what he hasn't dared to put into words. He brought a tyrant into their home, who will stop at nothing to get what she thinks she was born to have.

“Why does this need to stay a secret?” Arya inquires. “Why don't you want anyone to know? Wouldn't she love it if you'd make a big show of renouncing the throne in favour of the just queen all of you believe her to be?”

“She'd most likely add it somehow to her hundred titles,” Sansa quips with a sarcastic huff. “This doesn't make any sense, Jon. So, tell us true, do you really think she's a good queen for all of us, or is it that only her dragons make her a better choice?”

Jon finds himself unable to refute them, to defend her or at least to say anything that would make them understand the precarious situation they're in. As much as he may have enjoyed riding Rhaegal, he never wants to see what her children can do to the living. She has shown no remorse for burning Sam's father and brother, and she would show none for burning them either. The thought is utterly terrifying.

“You're afraid of her,” Arya says then, a bit astounded, but also worried. “And she knows the truth of who you are, doesn't she?”

Nodding, he sighs deeply, feeling miserable. He shouldn't have told her, he knows that now. Would it have been so awful to just keep fucking her until she's appeased sitting on that cursed throne? Another futile what if, he couldn't even kiss her back when she intruded on his privacy after the feast. “She can't know that you know. I mean it, she won't-"

“This changes everything,” Sansa interrupts suddenly, her voice brooking no dissent, and Jon feels panic rising. His eyes flicker between them, Sansa and Arya nodding in agreement with each other, while Bran watches with an unsettling faint smirk. “You promised not to tell anyone!”

“She fears you!” Sansa calls out. “She fears Aegon Targaryen, and that means you're in danger!”

“You will be in danger! You already are with your constant bickering about-"

“Excuse me?! I care about our people, our home-"

“And I don't?! All I did was for the North! For you! To protect and to save you!”

“How am I supposed to know that when you haven't said anything to me, besides what a great queen she is? Instead I see you making pleasure rides with her on those beasts while the ordinary rest of us plans for-"

“Enough!” Arya scolds. “We need to get rid of her, and when that's done you can spend the rest of your days quarrelling." While Jon and Sansa stare gloomily at each other, their little sister contemplates, "I could kill her, and wear her face until-"

"No!" Jon and Sansa interrupt her in unison.

"We can't be sure if the dragons won't feel the difference even though you'll look like her," Bran argues, and Jon snorts. That's the problem he sees with Arya wanting to kill and to wear Daenerys’ face?

"What then? Because time's running."

"We just confront her with the truth," Sansa suggests, which is just as mad as murdering her with her armies and dragons under their roof, so to speak. "You don't know her!” Jon calls out, rather desperate now.

“I do,” Sansa counters, the ire gone and replaced with an almost eerie calm, as she steps closer and grabs his elbow lightly. Why does that always affect him so? “I've known many like her.”

“Sansa,” he pleads. “She'll burn us all.”

Curling both her hands around his arms, she ignores his warning, “I know, I can't wield a sword, can't even throw a proper punch, but this, Jon, this is what I've been training for since we left home all those years ago. This is my battlefield, and now I have the weapons to beat her.”

“She has fucking dragons and her armies are in our home!”

She shrugs, as if neither can scare her. “But I need to know if you're with us, or-”

“Of course, he's with us!” Arya exclaims. “You think he would choose her over us just because he fucked her?”

“Arya!” Seldom has he been that horrified.

“What, did I say something wrong?”

“Are you with us, Jon?” Sansa asks, pressingly, a bit impatient, or maybe annoyed? “Despite your relationship with her?”

“After everything that's just been said, how can you doubt my loyalty?”

“Well, as Arya said, it's no secret how close you've become, and she isn't shy to admit that she loves you. There's even talk of a marriage between-"

“She's my aunt, for Gods’ sake!” Jon reminds them. Who is talking of marriage and why doesn't he know anything about it?

“Even more reason to ask. That makes her your family, too, and if I've learned one thing then it’s when you play the game of thrones, you win or you die, there is no middle ground. And I need to know, if you are with us regardless the cost.”

Jon suddenly feels a thick lump in his throat. Kinslaying is a sin, much more so than breaking an oath. He'd be a kinslayer, an oathbreaker, and a queenslayer. Cursed thrice over. Could he live with that? He glances into their expectant eyes, and knows that of course, he could live with it, for them, for the pack. “I'm with you.”

Sansa nods pleased, “I don't think it needs to come to that. It depends on her really."

“If it comes to it,” Arya chimes in, grinning. “I'll kill her. I don't share an ounce of blood with her, I didn't swear an oath, and she's certainly not my queen. It can look like an accident, or-”

“See,” Sansa interrupts her sister's musings. “We will protect you now, like father did. But you need to trust us that we can, you need to have faith in us now.”

More than anything, he wants out of this horrible mess he manoeuvred himself into, and it's not a question of faith in them, it's the lack of confidence in Daenerys to be reasonable. But they sound so certain, so determined, and he wants to believe that there is a future for them in peace and freedom. “You know I do.”

“Good,” Sansa says, with a reassuring smile. “And now leave us.”

“What?”

“We only have a few hours before you're expected to leave, so we have to act quickly. And she can't know, can't even suspect, that you're conspiring with us against her. You need to be as surprised as she and deny, believably, any knowledge about whatever we decide to do.”

“Believably? What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you're a shit liar and suck in pretending," Arya explains. 

Jon huffs affronted, “I don't suck. I lied and pretended plenty for moons, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here, would we?”

“You still lost the crown and our freedom,” Sansa retorts with a quirked brow. “And now we're taking both back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think?  
> Be safe! xoxo


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,
> 
> Thanks so much for your lovely feedback for the first chapter!!!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this one, too!

Jon stomps away through the snow, still angry, and watching him leave, it occurs to Sansa, that she may do exactly what she complained about when he made plans against Ramsey without asking her to contribute helpful insights. And obviously, he had a plan with Daenerys, too, but – again! – without sharing a single word. Does he truly care so little about her opinions? Does he still think her the stupid girl she once was? Or worse, does he think all girls stupid, since he hasn't told Arya anything either? No, that's not Jon, he just believes he has to carry all the burdens by himself. Perhaps he is stupid, if he still hasn't understood the meaning of the lone wolf dying and the pack surviving. It's not the same anyway, Sansa assures herself, the fight against Daenerys won't be decided on the battlefield. It can’t, she has dragons, and still more men, while Sansa doesn't have an army hidden, that can save the day this time. 

Jon says he pretended and lied to secure her aid. Fine, but he still swore an oath, and expected them to follow suit without protest. ‘What you command, we will obey,’ his words from earlier still ring painfully loud in her ears. Jon played the game, yes, but with keeping as much of his honour intact as he could, and Sansa understands that, it's admirable even. Yet, it's as foolish as the mistakes father and Robb made, and it will kill him, too. And to prevent that, she can't waste time discussing strategy, when they have no time anyway, and she knows they would, because they always argue about everything. 

Jon hasn't spent years in the clutches of people who drooled at the sight of that monstrous spiky chair, who schemed, murdered and started wars for it, and Daenerys is no different, despite her dragons. The Starks have endured much in the past years, decades even, and perhaps they will have to endure more in the years to come, but never again because the behave like sheep, and not like the wolves they are.

“We need to know if Jon is just a threat to her now, or still a weakness we could use,” Sansa says. “She told me that she fights his war, – as if the Others were just a northern problem –, because she loves him. Perhaps she only wanted to appease me, but she did say, that maybe he manipulated her.” Indeed, it had appeased her, until she wondered, why he had fled the room then when she asked if he bent the knee for the North or because he loved her.

“So, she was already suspicious of him?” Arya asks surprised.

“I don't know, but would she have said that if she wouldn't have at least considered the possibility? Surely, she's very cautious now, though,” Sansa replies, and takes a deep breath. “All her people worship her, as if she's some kind of goddess, but she frightens Jon. Why?”

Both sisters turn to their brother. “Tell us all about Daenerys Targaryen,” Arya demands, and Sansa scolds herself for not having done that already. She spent hours pondering about Daenerys, ever since Littlefinger mentioned a likely union between her and Jon, but not once has she asked Bran. Alas, here they are, with no time left for regretting wasted opportunities. 

And so, Bran tells them all of her deeds in Essos and Westeros, since she landed on its shores, and it doesn't take long for them to understand the true nature of the self-proclaimed Breaker of Chains.

“And you didn’t think to share that with us sooner?” Arya calls out, berating.

“Like you said, we needed her dragons and army.”

“This is worse than I thought,” Sansa mumbles, the certainty she has felt earlier dwindling in an unsettling rush. Daenerys is something special after all, and not only because of her dragons and her fireproof skin. “How could Jon even-”

“Jon doesn't know most of it,” Bran answers. “He didn't know that she burned Randyll and Dickon Tarly, either, until Sam told him.”

Sansa sighs weary, and closes her eyes while rubbing her temples to ease the arising headache. Gods, and the terrible smell everywhere! Not even the wind helps against the stink of death.

“Whatever Jon's plan was, it blew up once he learned the truth, and told her about it,” Arya says.

Sansa nods in agreement. “What about her advisors? Tyrion isn't as smart as I remember him to be, but still, he despised Joffrey and Cersei.”

“But maybe only because they've treated him like shit. Didn't he kill his own father?”

“He also killed Shae,” Bran says.

“What?” Shae has been one of the few kind souls in Kings Landing, and while she hasn't thought often of her after she left, it hurts.

“She gave testimony against both of you at the trial for Joffrey's murder, and then he found her in his father's bed.”

“I see,” she says slowly. The betrayal stings, but then Sansa recalls all she had testified and confessed in the past years. “Maybe they'd forced her, maybe not, but she didn't deserve to die. She was just a woman alone in the world.” It makes her angry, the unfairness, the cruelty, her misjudgement of Tyrion Lannister. She should have known better. “He can't be trusted.”

“No one can,” Arya reminds her. “Only the four of us. We can't allow to ever forget that again.”

“We won't,” she pledges. “Still, isn’t there anyone in her camp who at least doubts her?”

“Lord Varys claims to serve the realm,” Bran replies, and then adds like an afterthought, “Lord Tyrion knows that.”

“What does that mean?”

“He hasn't told her about Varys’ concerns, yet.”

“But he will?”

“I can't see the future, and I can't look into people's minds.”

“Seven hells, stop speaking in riddles!” Arya snaps. “They'll march off in what, an hour? Two? So, what do we do?”

Sansa feels a little panicky. Littlefinger’s best advice, – besides not to become as rotten as he, no matter how feverish one yearns for something –, was to fight every battle in one’s mind, but one needs time for that. “We must delay their departure. I still think confronting her-”

“And I think, Jon's right, she'll burn us on the spot,” Arya retorts. “She did for less.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I already told you, but you-"

“You're not killing her and leave us with dragons causing havoc!”

“Fine! But if Jon fears her without even knowing all that she's done, then that should worry us!”

None of this is helping, Sansa decides, all they do is losing precious time. “Come with me,” she orders, walking away.

“Where are we going? What will we do? We have no plan!”

“I know! I'm trying to think!” She calls out, exasperated, and thankful for Bran's usually vexing silence. They have a monster in their home. Again! Threatening their lives, and Jon's in particular. He isn't her brother. But Arya said it, it doesn't change anything. It's nothing to be confused about. Dragons! Two, fully grown, roam over their lands, eating whatever they want, while their people starve. If fire doesn't kill her, what else can't? If she believed her whole life to be born to rule them all, only to learn that she's not, would she allow anyone who could tell the tale to live? It's a mess in Sansa's head, too many information and unanswered questions demanding attention, too many emotions battling for the upper hand, and it's distracting when she needs to be at her most focused.

They're immediately amidst the tumultuous commotion the upcoming march off generates, when they step out of the Godswood. Aimlessly crossing yards and trudging through the crowds, Sansa halts suddenly, and raises her eyes to the window where Daenerys resides. It could simply be a reflection, but she thinks it’s a figure standing there, staring down at them. A lump grows in her throat, and a stone in her stomach, as dread joins the panic she feels most pressingly. “Something horrible will happen. If Jon leaves, he won't come back.”

She told him she could beat Daenerys, but how does one beat a monster who doesn't know that she is one?

“Should we kidnap him? A Targaryen prince snatched away by Stark princesses this time,” Arya jokes dryly.

“If nothing else works,” Sansa murmurs absentmindedly, having just spotted Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime standing a few feet away, and an idea forms in her mind. “With your knowledge,” she tells Bran, “you're also a threat. We need to protect you just as much.”

He nods, showing no worry. Well, in comparison to the Night King hunting you down, Daenerys probably isn't that frightening. “And I know where to hide,” he states, but doesn't elaborate, which may be for the best. What they don't know, they can't reveal.

“They'll get you there,” Sansa says, tilting her head towards their trusted sworn knight, and the Lannister.

Trust no one, she reminds herself, as they approach them, and schools her features. “I have an assignment for you,” she begins, and hopes she sounds calm and unsuspicious. “It's nothing to worry about-"

“So it is something to worry about,” Jaime Lannister rudely interrupts, chuckling.

She frowns, and throws a glance at her siblings. Arya rolls her eyes, and quickly nods. “Bran needs to go somewhere, and you’ll take him there. He'll tell you-"

“My lady-"

“We don't have time. Just follow his lead, and make sure he's safe.”

“You trust me with your brother's life?” Jaime asks, somewhat dumbfounded, and he has a point, but she has little alternatives.

“I trust Brienne, Ser Jaime, which is why you're still alive. But also, despite knowing what would await you here, despite her most certainly having forbidden it, you came. You made the right choice, while I doubt that she ever will. You're not like Cersei.”

He gazes at Brienne with a soft smile. “Not anymore.”

Ah, that explains Brienne's cheerful mood earlier. How cute, but, “Time's of essence. Leave now, don't take anything with you.”

“Sansa,” Brienne tries again. “What is this-”

“He knows something about the Targaryen Queen, doesn't he?” Jaime whispers. Trust no one, least of all, a Lannister. He nods once, when silence is their only answer. “I swear to protect him with my life.”

“You better,” Arya hisses. “That sword you're carrying belongs to House Stark. Don't ever forget that. Both of you.”

They look appropriately abashed, and while it's still painful to think of Ice, now, these swords will protect their brother. “Bran will know when it's time to return,” Sansa tells them, and then turns to him. “Be careful, observe us, and do what they say when there's danger.”

Bran's expression is blank, like most of the time, but then the corners of his mouth quirk up, almost in a smile, and it reminds her of when he was little, always up to no good, and driving their mother mad. Is the mischievous boy still in there? With a last look she says, “Be safe,” before hurrying away, lest she starts crying and makes a scene.

“They'll come back soon,” Arya says, when she catches up to her, but her voice is just as glum as Sansa feels. “It's for the best.”

“I hope,” she sighs, as they pass Sam Tarly and Gilly, charging their cart. Grabbing Arya's arm, they stop in their tracks. “He knows,” she murmurs, and thinks that it must be of use somehow.

“And surely he despises her,” Arya whispers, and then smirks. “Shouldn't we ask him?”

“A blink of an eye ago we vowed to trust no one who isn't a Stark, and already we've-”

“Aye, but turns out, Jon has a point. Allies can be helpful,” she counters and pulls Sansa along. 

“Hello Sam, hello Gilly.”

“Oh, hello,” Sam greets back, while Gilly just smiles kindly and attempts a curtsy, before resuming her task. They’re such a lovely couple, and Sansa can't help but to be a little envious. Gilly is a lucky woman, indeed. Sam freed her from a horrible place, despite his vows and the child not being his, he's the first who killed one of the Others, despite him claiming to be a coward, he abandoned his dream of becoming a maester to come back to help, despite knowing that they most likely wouldn't survive. He's a brave man, gentle too, and strong. Not strong like Jon, and not so very-

“Where are you going?” Arya asks, as if starting a casual chitchat.

“Home. I'm assuming the Night's Watch doesn't exist any longer, so- Well, I haven't honoured my vows for quite some time, anyway,” he chuckles, gazing fondly at Gilly. 

They laugh a little, before Arya whispers, with her eyebrows raised conspiratorially, “We've heard an interesting story about Jon.” 

Sam's eyes widen, and he nervously bites his bottom lip, either not knowing if he can trust them, or Jon ordered him to keep mum. 

“We've also heard about the fate of your father and brother, and we're deeply sorry,” Sansa adds, seeing the conflict in his darkening expression. He wants to say something.

A deep breath later, he does. “He said that it doesn't change anything, that she's our queen, and that it's treason to say otherwise,” he spits out, and Arya hums understanding, while Sansa nods encouraging. “Why does he defend her? Only because- and yes, I would do everything for Gilly, too, but not if she'd burn people for refusing to do her bidding! It's like he’s a different person,” he trails off, and Sansa understands the hurt, doubt, and confusion about what could've possibly happened to Jon, to have become a wolf without fangs. “Maybe something went wrong when that witch brought him back, I don't know. But something isn't right, that much I do know.”

“It really isn't,” Arya agrees. 

“Which is why we need your help.”

“Oh?” he exclaims surprised.

“Depending on how she'll react-"

“You're planning to confront her?!” Sam asks, sounding as panicky as Sansa feels underneath the faked calm, and it doesn't help that those beasts, her children, just chose this moment to fly over their heads, casting long, gloomy, shadows over Winterfell.

“We can either accept our fate, or we can at least try to fight for our freedom. We survived so much, even the Long Night, just to cower again to another tyrant?”

He glances at Gilly, now cradling Little Sam in her arms. “She's with child,” he whispers, almost to himself, and then gulps, contemplating his choices. Please, Sansa thinks, be strong and brave just a little longer, and then smiles when he says determined, “What do you need me to do?”

“Most importantly, you need to hide. She knows the truth about Jon, and-"

“He told her?” Sam asks incredulous, and the sisters nod. “Was that smart?” He sighs when they shake their heads. “Well, she's his aunt, so I guess it's understandable that he felt-”

“Anyway,” Sansa interrupts. “She may try to silence everyone who also knows.”

“Bran knows, too. He knows everything," he says worried.

“We took care of that,” Arya assures him. “He’ll be safe.”

“Find Greywater Watch, Sam. Howland Reed hasn't been seen for a long time, but when you tell him what happened, that we've send you, he’ll harbour you. He's also the only living person who was there at the Tower of Joy, and we need his testimony. Keep it until we know which way to go forward.”

“Which way?”

“The truth will either still need to be a secret, or it'll need to become common knowledge in all corners of Westeros,” Sansa explains, “and you'll have to make it so, if it's the latter.”

He puffs. “That could cause a riot, regardless if it's her or Cersei on the throne.”

Indeed, it could. “Chaos is a ladder, and sometimes it's exactly what's needed to start anew.”

Sam narrows his eyes, unconvinced and doubtful. “Jon told me, unmistakable, that he doesn't want it.”

“We're Starks. It's never about what we want,” Arya states. 

“True, but perhaps no one should sit on that horrible thing anymore. There's a reason why it's called the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa says, and taking Sam's hand, adds, “Don't lose faith in Jon. He's not lost to us, and won't ever be.”

He nods reassured, and after agreeing upon the details of how they'll communicate, they say their farewells. 

“Chaos is a ladder,” Arya repeats, smirking, as they watch the little family leave through the gate. “How very Littlefinger of you.”

“Petyr Baelish was evil, but there's no denying that he was one of the best that ever played the game. There's a lot we can take from him, without making the same mistakes, of course.”

“Father and mother would be so proud,” Arya quips sarcastically.

“They would,” Sansa objects. “Mother freed Jaime Lannister in exchange for our lives, against Robb's orders. She arrested Tyrion when she thought he attacked Bran. She did whatever she could to protect us. And so did father.” Suddenly an overwhelming surge of pride overcomes her. “He committed treason, he lied to everyone, even his wife, he forfeited his honour, all to protect his sister's child,” she says, lips trembling, and eyes watering. “They would be proud of us.”

Her little sister smiles, squeezing her hand, and whatever determination she felt before, is nothing compared to the perseverance that consumes Sansa now to protect her pack. Wiping her eyes, she looks up to the keep again, where Daenerys is waiting, surely most impatient by now, for her armies to be ready to leave. “Whatever it takes, we will win this damned game of their damned thrones. Let them all feel the cold of the white winds and the pain of being bitten by wolves.”

“Winter is coming.”

“Winter is here.”


	3. Arya

In moments like these, when Sansa declares to let their enemies feel the harsh winds of winter, Arya can't help but to still feel a fool for ever having doubted her sister to be a wolf. Sansa had assured her that many – including herself, again and again – had fallen victim to Petyr Baelish’s lies, tricks and manoeuvres. Perhaps, but none of them had trained in the House of Black and White like she had, learning to uncover truths behind fake smiles, meaningless words, and false promises. And yet, she had been blind when it came to her own blood, and saw only the annoying big sister she knew, who used to endlessly blab about the most boring things, like pretty dresses, oh so romantic songs and tales, and her perfect future life as someone's lady wife. 

Sansa still glares up to the window where the dragon queen waits, and Arya shakes her head at her own ignorance, which had made it so easy for Littlefinger to drive a wedge between them. How she had picked up all the convenient clues he placed for her to find, like a well-trained dog sniffing for treats. Just to think of what could've happened if Sansa wouldn't have realised that he was playing a game with them once more. Never again, she had vowed to herself after Littlefinger met his deserved end, and now it's Daenerys Targaryen who tries to separate them, who threatens the pack, and she needs to be dealt with just as well. If only Jon and Sansa would allow her to take care of the problem, swift and quiet.

“So, what do we do-,” she begins, but then halts when someone shouts, “Wolf ladies!” 

The sisters turn around and see Tormund approaching, with a bright grin on his face. Arya likes him and the Free Folk, they seem delightfully uncomplicated. They speak as they think, don't bother with titles and stupid rules, and they're funny.

“Where's your pretty warrior lady?”

“You need to forget her, Tormund. I think, she's taken,” Sansa replies with a smirk.

His face drops in disappointment. “You need two hands to properly satisfy-"

“Anyhow,” Sansa interrupts, and then pauses as she regards him for a few moments. Of course, Tormund could help somehow, couldn't he? Arya wonders, as her sister asks, “Have you seen Jon?”

“No. Maybe he's riding the dragon again,” Tormund replies, grinning again, and wiggling his eyebrows, as he adds, “And I don't mean the flying sort.”

Sansa face darkens immediately, and Arya doesn't know if it's because of the inappropriateness to say such a thing, or because of the act itself, or because of Jon's involvement. She seems peculiarly upset about whatever's going on between him and Daenerys, but then, it probably isn't that peculiar. It does look as if he'd made the same mistake as Robb, and lost the North in the bed of a foreigner. “No, he's not,” her sister snaps, but catches herself quick. “He's your friend, isn't he?”

“Of course. Why?”

“We need a favour,” Arya chimes in. She has no idea what Sansa is getting at, but since they left the Godswood, they've just gone with the flow, as they say, and – so far – it worked quite fine.

“A favour?” He asks surprised, and then laughs heartily. “You little thing, you might be the greatest warrior the world has ever seen! We're all in your debt, so whatever you need, you have it.”

It makes Arya uncomfortable, the attention, the praise, and she would prefer that no one would ever mention it again. The dead fucker threatened her pack, too, so she did what needed to be done, no reason to make such a fuss about it. Jon had laughed at that, in the few minutes they had time to speak afterwards, and said she'd better get used to songs to be sung about her for generations to come. He had smiled proudly and then ruffled her hair like he had done a million times before they all got lost. She almost burst out in tears like a little girl. Almost, and she's been very tired then. And that smell! It's still all around, but then the nauseating stink of burned flesh had been so strong, it brought tears into everyone's eyes. Perhaps not into Daenerys’, but certainly into Gendry's- No, she won't think of his teary eyes now, nor of him at all. Lord Baratheon, she thinks scoffing, who wants to marry her, because he never listened when she told him that she doesn't want to be a lady, least of all a lady wife to some stupid lord.

“Can you go to him and stay at his side, until we find you again?” Sansa asks, bringing Arya back to the here and now. Really, she shouldn't be musing about trifles when they have only minutes left to prevent the worst.

“Why?”

Arya can hardly stop herself from rolling her eyes. What’s with the people and their constant questioning? “We need to do something,” she elaborates, “and you need to protect him should things not go our way.”

Naturally, Tormund looks even more suspicious now, and asks slowly, “Protect him from what?”

“From whom,” Sansa retorts. “Very recently we have learned something that may put him in great danger, so it would be good if he has a true friend by his side, while we try to sort some things out."

“You girls speak in riddles,” he says, shaking his head.

That, and they really suck at this, Arya thinks, impatient. While they tiptoe around Jon's big secret, more men leave through the gates! So, she takes another leap of faith. “The Free Folk don't kneel, right?”

“That's why we're the Free Folk,” he deadpans.

“We want to be free, too,” she declares, and hopes it's enough to convince him to trust them.

It isn't, quite the opposite, she realises when Tormund’s face turns deadly serious. “But Jon did kneel,” he says accusatory. “I said my prayers when he lay dead on that table, murdered by his sworn brothers, because he chose to save my people. I won't take part-"

“We're not betraying Jon!” Sansa calls out, exasperated, but then lowers her voice again. “If we would, we wouldn't ask you for help. And yes, he knelt. It was the price for the aid against the Others. But we know now that it's a price too high to pay. For Jon, for us, for everyone, perhaps even for you, beyond the broken wall.”

Interestingly, he doesn't ask what exactly she means, doesn't even seem surprised. Then again, he has seen with his own eyes that dragons don't care about walls, that they can't be stopped by anything when only the sky's the limit. “He didn't want to kneel, either,” he says pensively after a few moments. “And he asked me for advice, but all I cared about then was our survival. You're all kneelers to us, so what's the difference who is king or queen, as long as we live?” He rubs his face, and sighs. “What are you planning?”

“First, we need to delay their march off, and then we'll figure out the rest,” Arya explains. “But we struggle to find a way that doesn't get us all burned on the spot.”

He breaks into a mischievous grin. “Worry not. What you need is a distraction, and if we wildlings are good at something, it's disrupting the peace of you southerners.”

Both sisters snort affronted. “Don't call us that.”

“But it's a good way to anger our men,” Sansa suggests. “And it would be even better if you could turn them against the Unsullied and Dothraki somehow. Nothing too severe, we don't want them to kill each other. Just a little diplomatic crisis that needs some attention for a few days, at least. Can you make that happen?”

“We're troublemakers by nature. Give me half an hour, and I promise no one will leave today.”

“Good,” Sansa says, smiling. “But really, don't start a war, just-"

“I know!” He calls out, and looks almost cheerful as he walks away in quick strides.

“I hope this works,” Sansa murmurs, as they turn around again towards the keep. “We still need someone we trust to stay with Jon, but there's no one left, is there? So, you should find him, and-"

“You're not facing her alone. What if-,” Arya stops mid-sentence when they see Jon at the other side of the yard with Ser Davos, but much more importantly, accompanied by his direwolf. 

“Ghost!” They call out in unison, and hurry over to their brother and his advisor. Although it's up to discussion how good his counsel is, truly. Brienne had told Arya about Stannis Baratheon, and it makes her wonder how Davos served a man who burned his own daughter for the Iron Throne, and yet believes Daenerys to be a good queen. She has overheard him talking about a marriage between her and Jon, so he's either a fool, or plays his own game. Regardless, he can't be trusted.

“Ser Davos,” Sansa greets, somewhat terse, probably doubting him as well. “Would you please excuse us? We need a word with Jon.”

Ser Davos smiles kindly, and leaves with a quick nod. Jon though stares anything but kindly at them. There's a deep frown, narrowed eyes, and lips pressed into a thin line, all the signs Arya knows well, though his anger was only seldom directed at her. It kind of annoys her, which also very rarely happened in the past. Jon could never do wrong in her eyes, while Sansa hardly ever did anything right. Rude awakening, Arya muses sardonically.

“We're still scheduled to leave as planned, so what have you been up to in the last hours?” He asks, berating, which really doesn't work in his favour.

No petty quarrels now, time's running, she reminds herself and answers, “Listening to your advice and trusting people we didn't grow up with to make allies,” with a smile, that usually softens Jon up ridiculously easy.

Not this time, though. “You think this is funny? I've been running around like a scared chicken, expecting her to scream ‘dracarys' any second. So, I ask again, what is going on?”

Arya feels anger rising, so quick and strong, she sucks in a breath, and bites her bottom lip before she starts yelling into his stupid face. 

“We told you, it's best if you don't know. She needs to believe that you're uninvolved,” Sansa calmly says, apparently not bothered by the audacity of him to be angry, when all they're trying to do is to safe his sorry ass.

He snorts! And Arya bites her lip harder. “Look at me,” he scoffs. “Do I seem to just mind my own business without a worry in the world? Do I look carefree and ‘uninvolved’ to you?”

He looks a mess, as stressed out as they all feel. He said he lied and pretended, clearly suspecting for moons what a threat Daenerys potentially posed for all of them, but still needed to keep close to her to guarantee her aid. How exhausting must it have been to make her believe there's loyalty and love, when it's truly fear? This is all wrong, Arya thinks. “No, you look like shit, and you're right. It was a mistake to exclude you.”

He nods at her in acknowledgement, and then turns to Sansa, waiting for her reaction, or approval? Arya still isn't quite sure how they stand to each other. From what she heard, they must have grown closer than they were as children. But since they're back home, she hasn't seen them together much, at least not without an audience, and the few times they were among themselves, they always argued. Sometimes, and it's a bit weird, they remind her of her parents, especially when they sit or stand next to each other in the Great Hall or at the council meetings. Must just be their looks, Sansa all Tully and Jon all Stark.

“She's right, I shouldn't have sent you away. I'm sorry,” Sansa says, looking and smiling apologetically. Which is just as lame as her own earlier attempt to appease him, Arya is sure, and then frowns, as she watches Jon's face soften as he releases a deep breath, his anger seemingly vanishing into thin air. What the hells?

Her sister starts to summarise what they've achieved so far, which doesn't seem much, but really is, considering the dire situation. Of course, Jon doesn't like what she tells him about Sam's mission to find Howland Reed and their plan to make the secret known all over Westeros if needed. Somehow, Arya doesn't want to hear his complains, and stops him before a word can leave his open mouth. “Your silence about her left us with hardly any time, so we're doing what we can,” she hisses. “So, if you need to be just another fucking Aegon, the thousandth or something, King of the damned seven Kingdoms, before she gets the chance to force us all into submission with her bloody ‘children’, you'll be just that, until we come up with something better.”

They stare at her as if she grew a second head, and truthfully, Arya's a bit surprised herself. But maybe she shouldn't be, she ponders. Ever since he came back with ‘his’ queen in tow, she has tried to stay out of their sight, to not get involved in all that political horseshit that consumes Sansa's time, but what she really did, she realises now, was suppressing her disappointment and anger at the person she has felt the closest to her whole life. Jon and her always understood each other, shared their worries and wishes, and then, after years of missing him, he behaved like a stranger, only glimpses here and there of the brother she once knew and loved so much. Yes, he lied and pretended with Daenerys, but he also lied and pretended with her, and Arya could never have imagined that he would ever do that.

Jon gulps a few times, and – again! What's up with that? – looks to Sansa for- Arya doesn't even know what for. He was the one who had scoffed that their sister believed herself smarter than everyone, had wondered that she would defend Sansa, and now he seems to need her consent, or something?

“It won't come to that, I'm certain,” Sansa says reassuring. “We're just trying to prepare for all possibilities. Besides, let's not forget that Cersei is still on the throne right now, so all of this is hypothetical anyway.”

“Aye,” he sighs. “But if it comes to it, I won't be called Aegon. It's just presumptuous. How can it be my name when it was his firstborn’s? It must be a mistake Bran made.”

It most likely isn't, Arya thinks, and sharing a quick look with Sansa, her sister doesn't believe it's a mistake either, but neither says so. Those people were all mad, everyone knows that, but it won't do good to remind him of that now. Actually, she can't quite grasp the whole situation. Jon a secret Targaryen, the true heir, the crown prince, and not her brother? Seven bloody buggering hells! But if she has troubles wrapping her mind around it, just how much more confusing must it be for him? And just like that, Arya's irritation puffs away in the twinkling of an eye, and all she feels is the urge to hug Jon. Yet, there's no time now for that. Later though, and not in front of everyone, a girl doesn't fucking cry for all to see.

“Now,” Sansa finishes her report, “we wait for Tormund to cause enough unrest within the camps to delay your departure, and hopefully it will give us enough time to make a proper plan.”

An amused smirk grows on Jon's face, “I know from experience how much havoc they can cause with just their charming presence.”

“But we need to be careful, she’ll be furious,” Sansa cautions, “and might still command the men-"

“She won't,” Jon interrupts. “Because someone, preferably Grey Worm, will tell her that there can't be discord between her armies if she wants them to be victorious against Cersei.” He pauses, and the familiar worried frown returns. “Grey Worm doesn't trust me. He saw at the meeting this morning that I tried to take one of her dragons, and put a halt to it. The look he gave me, as if he knew...” He inhales deeply and continues, “I don't think she saw that, but maybe he told her by now.”

“You tried to steal a dragon?!” Sansa calls out, squeaking really.

“I had to do something, hadn't I?” He retorts, shrugging, as if it wouldn't be as mad as it clearly is, which is a bit worrisome, even more so when a bright smile appears on his face. Why would a failed attempt to steal a dragon make him happy? She turns to her sister, expecting her to be just as puzzled, but no, Sansa beams at Jon, too, shiny eyes and all, as if he shared some spectacularly great news. Are they aware that he didn't actually get the dragon? Even worse, that Daenerys might be more suspicious of him now?

“If not Grey Worm, who then?” Arya asks when the silence stretches unnecessarily. Her voice startles Jon, as if he forgot that she's there, and Sansa seems somewhat flustered. They're weird, truly. “Lord Varys maybe? Bran said that he is concerned about her, so-"

“He is?”

Nodding, Arya goes on, “And apparently Tyrion knows, but hasn't told her yet. Anyway, if Varys has doubts, could we use him to prevent her from acting rashly against us?”

Jon contemplates this for a moment, absentmindedly cradling Ghost behind his remaining ear, before he replies, “Aye, that seems to be our best chance. Tyrion made too many mistakes lately, I don't think she'll listen to him. So, when Tormund has done his part, I will call for an emergency council meeting, and you need to whisper into Varys’ ear, if no one else from her side says something helpful first. She doesn't pay much attention to you, yet, while she watches Sansa like a hawk, and we have to use that advantage for as long as we can."

The sisters nod in agreement, and Arya then says, “We think it's best if you keep Ghost at your side at all times for now. You know, as protection.”

“He won't save me from dragon fire,” Jon jokes, smiling, as he strokes his direwolf's back.

“No, but from assassins hiding in the dark. Trust me, you can fool humans, but not him. He's going to smell danger long before you even notice that something's off.”

Jon glances at her, the smile dying and she knows that it unsettles him, her knowledge of what assassins in the dark can and cannot do. It's not her alone then, who has difficulties reconciling memories of the past with who they are in the present, she thinks as suddenly shouts are heard in the distance.

It doesn't take long for the upheaval in the camps outside of Winterfell’s walls to travel inside, and while the whole place breaks out in chaos, the three of them quietly stand apart of it, watching the spectacle unfold. This is how it's supposed to be, Arya thinks. Not alone anymore, but hunting their prey together, cornering her into the trap they've laid out. They raise their heads to the keep when Daenerys opens the window to see what the noise is all about. Instinctively, they take a few steps back into the shadows of the stone walls, out of her sight, and wait. They know it's important to be patient, to not attack too soon, lest the prey slips away. The anticipation grows, she can feel it vibrating in her body, but also like a buzzing emanating from Jon and Sansa, too. Tension mixed with a strange excitement, despite the dangers that surely lay ahead. Not today, not tomorrow, Arya knows, but soon enough, the four wolves of Winterfell will be feasting on slain dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there,
> 
> Thanks for the kind comments and kudos so far, they really motivate me to keep writing this story. I hope you enjoyed this chapter too. Although I know, three chapters and we just moved forward a couple of hours. But unlike others - cough D&D cough - I'm trying not to rush things. So, please bear with me?
> 
> Be safe! xoxo


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Jon is back, and he's angry!
> 
> Also, as I refuse to rewatch the last 2 seasons, I'm basically using what I can remember, just googling things here and there for research, so there's probably a lot I forgot (aka blocked out), or remembered wrong. I'm sorry about that!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

It's strange how a smile can make everything better, Jon muses, as he watches people hurrying from here to there to find out what the noise is all about. Only a few minutes ago he's still been thoroughly miserable. Tired of sleep deprivation and of the prospect to fight another war, weary to leave home again and doubtful to ever return, afraid of what his sisters will do and of Daenerys’ reaction, and hurt and upset by Sansa sending him away, and by Arya not intervening, as she would've before, when he was still her favourite brother. They've excluded him, as if he would only make things worse, as if they didn't truly trust him, and it's unfair. They weren’t her prisoner with plenty of time to observe Daenerys, and Jon knows he would've ended as a pile of ash if he wouldn't have done what she expects all men to do, to grovel at her feet in awe. It's easy to condemn him when it's not their actions, their decisions that made the difference between the North having at least a chance of survival or none at all. 

Besides, it's not as if Jon didn't have a plan, just that he screwed that up once he learned the truth of his parentage, and who wouldn't have, truly? Gods be damned, it's as if they have it out for him, as if they're having a good laugh at his expense. ‘You wished for it, we granted it.’ Jon sighs. No, he wasn't careful what he wished for, but who in the seven bloody hells could've imagined that?! It doesn't matter, anyway. Arya and Sansa made it clear that it changes nothing, and that's exactly what he had hoped and how it should be, isn't it?

The tumult around them grows, and so does the anticipation of what's to come, unpredictable as it is. Jon's worried, of course, but at the same time excited. Arya and Sansa, too, it rolls off them in waves, making it harder to keep still, to wait for just the right moment to act. Or to attack, because this feels like a hunt. Like hiding behind a tree or lying on the ground, watching the careless prey, unaware of the danger until it's too late and the arrow finds its aim. Jon leans forward, and glances up. Still standing at the window, Daenerys glares down the yard. Even from the distance he can see the deep, annoyed frown on her face, and for the first time in what seems an eternity he allows his true emotions to run free. It's liberating, it's exhilarating, it sharpens his senses, which, he realises now, he had numbed to be able to pull it off with her. It's like he lived in a daze for too long, and he inhales deeply, not even minding the foul air. It's the first free breath since he stepped foot on Dragonstone. 

Freedom, he thinks mockingly, sword hand twitching and a vein pulsing in his temple. She talks about freedom and knows only repression, she believes she inspires loyalty when it's truly servitude. She measures people's worth only in how fierce they love her, and how they can contribute to her achieving her goals, and if they don't and can't, they're at best nuisances, but most likely enemies. ‘She doesn't need to be my friend, but I am her queen. If she can't respect me...', Jon hears her threat against Sansa loud and clear, in truth, louder and clearer than when she actually said it, it's like she's screaming into his ear. Bouncing up and down on his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists, blood pounding behind his eyes, he wants to run up the keep.

He snarls when he's being pulled backwards. “Not yet,” Sansa whispers, tightly clutching his arm, and tentatively stroking Ghost with her other hand. His faithful companion stands beside them, hackles, tail and rump all up, and teeth on full display. “Not like this,” she says, and glances up into the sky. Flying so high, her children look like harmless big birds, and not the fire breathing monsters they are.

It would be a quick affair to end it now, but the aftermath would be an entirely different matter. He takes a few slow breaths, leans back against the stone wall, and reaches out to scratch his direwolf soothingly behind the ear. He knows he should feel apprehensive, should fear what is certainly to come once Daenerys realises that her plans have been sabotaged. She is neither stupid nor trusting, she'll assume that someone schemed against her, and her first suspect will be Sansa.

“After what happened this morning,” he says with a low voice, “I think, it's best if you-"

“I'll keep quiet,” she replies with a little smile. “I let you do the talking, I promise.”

He returns the smile, a bit surprised that she agreed so quick, and then hears his name called. Finally, and with a quick look to his sisters, cousins – whatever! –, Jon and Ghost join the chaos. He finds he plays it well, the surprise and the displeasure about what the hells is going on here. The outrage and understanding when he hears all sorts of grievances and allegations, one more outlandish than the other. The prudence, as he attempts to calm the furious men, but as hoped and expected, to no avail. Tormund has outdone himself, and it's a small miracle that no one's dead, yet, Jon reckons, as he looks at the angry faces, most with reddish eyes that'll surely turn black, swollen lips, and bloody noses. Grabbing the arm of one of Daenerys’ Unsullied, who stumbles past him after dodging a blow from a Northerner, he orders him to find Grey Worm. When her trusted advisor joins, he seems wary of his report, but agrees that the fighting needs to be stopped. It takes another hour or so to end the mass brawl, in which apparently no wilding was involved. He has to ask his friend how he managed that, he muses as he shouts commands, talks and listens to Gods know who, all the while trying to ignore the dragons flying circles over Winterfell, unsettling closer now. 

Before Jon knows it, they're all back inside, waiting for Daenerys to arrive to the impromptu council meeting. Confusion, worry and anger are written on everyone else's faces, as they share in hushed voices what each has heard about the fight. Arya lurks in a corner, bored and unattached, as if none of this concerns her, while Sansa quietly stands at her usual place by his side, a blank expression on her face, hands folded at her back. He digs his nails deep into his palm to not laugh at the absurdity of it all. The distant sound of wings clapping, though, is a helpful reminder of why this isn't funny at all, and any amusement puffs away as soon as Daenerys strides in, followed by Missandei and Tyrion. She seems a bit taken aback when her eyes fall on Ghost, leisurely lying on the ground behind him and Sansa, nibbling with relish on a bone he found on the fields. They haven't been properly introduced, with good reason. Unlike him, his direwolf really sucks in pretending and is a shit liar.

“What is this I hear about your men attacking mine?” She asks accusatory, and Jon burns with hate.

It's almost overwhelming, but it's like a floodgate has been opened, that can't be locked again. He knows who she is behind the pretty face and the grand speeches of breaking chains and wheels, and he despises, with all his heart, what she has made him do, who she made him become. A man with no honour, no dignity, no voice. 

Not yet, not like this, Sansa had cautioned, and so he takes he deep breath and tries what he has done for moons, appeasing his queen. “The reports are not clear about who attacked whom first, Your Grace,” he replies calm.

She looks at Grey Worm, who nods in agreement. “Some say the Northmen started the fight, some say the Dothraki rode through their camp before, and others say the Unsullied attacked first. I do not know what is true.”

“I have heard,” Alys Karstark begins, and it surprises everyone that the quiet girl raises her voice, “that the Dothraki claimed that they've been promised to take as many women as they wish.” It reminds Jon of fearless Lyanna Mormont when she glares, utterly repulsed, at Daenerys. “Are we their reward?”

“Of course not,” she answers, as if it's ridiculous to even think that. “They would never-"

“Never? It does seem to tally with what we know about their way of life in Essos,” Lord Royce retorts, daring to interrupt her. “But we are in Westeros. Here, kidnapping and rape are punishable crimes, no matter who the culprit is. Even if it’s a crown prince, and certainly if it's a horde of foreign barbarians.”

Good Gods, the man knows no fear either, and Jon's quite impressed by the people on his side. Sansa snorts lightly, studies the floor, and presses her lips together, lest she burst out laughing.

“What are you implying?” Daenerys seethes, and only a fool would miss the underlying threat.

Remembering that he’s still very much devoted to her, Jon clears his throat. “Please,” he implores, winning her attention. “It could’ve been any of those rumours. I’ve heard that the Unsullied eat children, and that's why they're so strong.” He looks apologetically to Grey Worm. “Obviously, that isn't true either.”

“And I've heard that all Northerners have shrivelled balls and tiny peckers from the cold, which is why their frozen seed produces only dumb and dull offspring,” Tyrion chimes in.

“Whatever the cause,” Jon argues, nothing but the voice of reason. “I don't think it's too big an issue. It sounds like something that just happens among men once in a while, so-"

“Just happens?” Daenerys interjects, critically arching her eyebrows.

“The men are used to speak their mind, and to react accordingly when they don't like what they hear.”

“Accordingly? By starting a fight? Seems as if your people are barbaric.”

‘Your people’, again, Jon notices. “We don't know how this started, and we may never. No one died, most just suffered a few scratches and broken noses. All they need-" He halts and clamps his mouth shut. Stick to the plan!

She narrows her eyes at him. “Pray tell, what do they need?”

Damn it.

“Some time, Your Grace,” Lord Varys pipes up, and Arya slowly retreats back into her corner.

“Time?” She gnarls. 

“As unfortunate as this incident is, your armies are divided now. But I believe, as Lord Snow said, it's nothing that can't be resolved in a few days of-"

“A few days?” She repeats incredulous, and then starts to pace around the table, complaining to no one in particular, “All you ever tell me is why I can't do this or that, and I listen, don't I? I always follow your advice, all the while Cersei sits on my throne, laughing at me. Do you think she's as patient and reasonable as I am? Do you think she cares as much as I do? Don't the people of Kings Landing deserve to be freed, like I freed you?” She glances around and while her people nod vigorously, his side stares at her as if she speaks a different language. Naturally, she doesn't appreciate their lack of gratitude, and turns back to Jon. “Perhaps your people need a reminder, that ‘The Northern forces will honour their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’” she throws his words from this morning in his face. “I don't care about broken noses, about harsh winter winds, or the cold of the night. They’ll march South, today.”

“My Queen. It is not good to have fights between soldiers. To defeat the enemy, they must be united. We are not,” Grey Worm states, face stoic as usual, voice clear and his words up to the point. Jon likes that, and it's a shame that they're not on the same side.

Everyone's eyes are on Daenerys, as the silence stretches – only interrupted by Ghost's teeth scratching on the bone – while she contemplates her options. She looks as if she's about to burst into flames, when she hisses, “Very well then,” and her glare flickers around until it focuses on Sansa. “You're exceptionally quiet, Lady Stark. Don't you have anything to say?”

“No,” she answers flippant, and Jon wants to roll his eyes. Was that necessary? 

“I see,” Daenerys trails off, as she moves past him, stopping in front of his sister, cousin, and he fights the urge to grab his sword. “You must be delighted that you got your wish after all.”

“I didn't wish for a fight. I wished for our men to get some well-deserved rest.”

“And now they'll get it. Don't you find that interesting?”

“Lucky coincidence, I'd say,” Sansa retorts, and Jon wants to shake her. But then, Daenerys would be even more suspicious if she'd be nice and subservient all of a sudden.

“I don't think it's a ‘coincidence’, and neither that it ‘just happened’.” She pauses and hums, before continuing, “I believe that you caused this ‘unfortunate incident’ that ruined my plans.”

Most would tremble with fear, but not Sansa. “How have I done this?” she asks, as if she's truly curious.

“You've said it yourself, men are easily manipulated.”

Sansa snorts! And Jon positions his feet, just in case, lest he accidentally cuts someone else if he has to draw his sword. “It's just a few days. If I'd done anything, they'd never leave.”

“Sansa,” he hisses, while the rest of the audience gasps, and even Ghost loudly drops the bone on the stone floor.

Daenerys though, smiles, and it's so unexpected, it worries him more than if she'd start screaming. “Your brother swore the North to me, and yet, you're undermining him. You don't respect me, but neither do you respect him.”

Jon knows it's meant for his ears, she thinks it'll drive a wedge between them, just like she tried the evening of the feast when she claimed, ‘She's not the girl you grew up with. Not after what she's seen, not after what they've done to her.’ A foolish attempt, again. Whoever – Tyrion and Varys certainly – told her details about Sansa's past, apparently didn't know or forgot to mention that they've spent every day together after they've reunited at Castle Black until he accepted her ‘invitation’. He knows bloody well that Sansa isn't the girl anymore he grew up with. Has it not occurred to them, that after years of separation, torture, and murder, no Stark would ever betray the pack? Haven't they heard about the untimely death of Littlefinger? Idiots, the whole lot of them.

“Respect needs to be earned,” Sansa bites out, her fake calm wavering, and Jon glances to the corner where Arya has been staying out of sight. She's not there, instead slowly moves towards them, and acknowledges him with a quick nod. She's getting ready, as well, just in case.

“And I haven't earned it? You'd be all dead if it weren't for me. If I wouldn't have come-"

“Then we'd be marching South now, together with our almighty King of the Dead, amassing the greatest army the world has ever seen on our way, and no one below the Neck would've a chance against us, not even you and your ‘children’. I'm sure Jon mentioned that while he was your ‘guest’ on Dragonstone, hasn't he?”

There it is again, the thrill, the vibrant excitement growing inside. Ghost brushes the back of his legs, and Arya smirks at him, raising an eyebrow as she positions herself behind Grey Worm. Her Master of War frowns as he watches the two women, also realising that this could get out of hand. The others though seem too captivated by what's unfolding in front of them to notice. Except Lord Varys, who stands by the door, ready to run, but with an almost unnoticeable smile around his lips. What game is that man playing? Either way, inside this chamber they have the upper hand, but not outside, Jon thinks when the room darkens for a quick moment by the large shadows her dragons throw over Winterfell. They must fly even lower now.

“We all should get some rest,” Jon says, hoping to diffuse the situation, to get them out here unharmed, and to keep Winterfell standing for another day.

Daenerys swings around, face contorted by fury, and hisses, “Perhaps your people, your own sister, don't respect me, and ignore that you've bent the knee, because you never truly have. Nice words and promises mean nothing, they're as feeble as wind.” Her children seem to get agitated, the flapping of their wings more frequent and louder, and they're so close now, they obliterate the sun almost completely when they cross its path. It makes the chamber flicker between light and darkness. “So, perhaps it would help your people to understand if they'd see all of House Stark swear loyalty to its rightful queen, just as it's custom in this frozen wasteland.”

He doesn't even have time to comprehend what she demands, when Sansa informs her, that, “All of House Stark is not here,” as she fondles Ghosts fur, who sits between them now, his head affectionately nudging her hip.

“I'm sure your brother can take a break from doing whatever at that tree, and spare a moment for his queen.”

“He's not in the Godswood.”

“Where is he then?” Daenerys snaps impatient, and Ghost doesn’t like her tone. She takes a startled step back when his good boy stands up, baring his fangs and places himself right in front of Sansa, his red eyes not leaving hers.

“Gone.”

“To where?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?”

Sansa takes her time before she answers, voice dripping with glee, “To still protect the memory of this world, of course. To save its secrets and truths from those who want them erased.” 

Daenerys needs a moment to grasp the full meaning, but when she does, she glowers darkly at Sansa before she, as expected, turns her undivided attention back to Jon. Just a few hours ago, he would’ve panicked. Would’ve pleaded, would’ve dropped to his knees, would’ve made promises and declarations of his undying devotion. It’s unthinkable now, and he pushes his shoulders back, demonstratively wraps his hand around the pommel of Longclaw, and scowls her into silence when she opens her mouth.

The surprise on her face is so quickly followed by realisation and hurt, he assumes she must have suspected it all along, but chose to pretend and lie to herself, as well. It's sad, he doesn't enjoy this, and wishes there would've been another way. But he tried, hadn't he? Again and again, Jon had begged Daenerys to listen, to understand the threat of the Others, and the nature of the North and its people. She hadn't listened, hadn't understood, and now he sees her heart break as she accepts the truth of his betrayal, of being played and manipulated by a barbaric northern wolf of the frozen wasteland. She averts her face and looks out the window, her chest heaving fast, and faster with every second that passes. When her eyes meet his again, there’s only rage.

The screeching of the dragons is so loud, so near, it’s deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the game has started! Yay!  
> I hope you liked it. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


	5. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> This chapter is fairly long, but I just couldn't cut it more without ruining the pace and ending it where I wanted it to for the next one. I hope you don't mind.
> 
> Also, a big thanks to kazetoame for the background info, and for reminding me of something I have been wondering about when I watched the last season, but totally forgot. Why, by all the gods, did NO ONE wonder why Rhaegal was so chill about some northern stranger riding him? Well, someone's going to ask some questions here...
> 
> This chapter picks up right where we left off, and I hope you'll like it.

The screeching of those horrible beasts gets louder, nearer, more pressing, but Sansa barely notices, too absorbed by the spectacle in front of her, by Jon looking mesmerizingly hazy in the frenetic flickering. A few days ago, he asked if she has any faith in him at all, and ever since she had wondered why he even cared when he had waved her opinions and warnings aside to go off repeating Robb’s mistakes. The anger, the disappointment, the hurt had burned under her skin like a simmering fire, always flaring up whenever she had to watch them together, to hear him singing her praises, to see him smiling at her, to think he had chosen love over duty, building his happiness on her freedom, on the North's independence. She hadn't paid enough attention, Sansa knows now, delighted at the pure resentment in Jon's face as he glares at Daenerys. 

‘The North is my home. It's part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds,’ Jon had told them before he left for Dragonstone. He fought and he won, against the odds, Sansa smiles, the anger she had felt just a few moments ago puffed away. But it's only fleeting when she remembers why they're here. No, the war isn't over yet, they just won a battle.

The constant changing of the light from bright to dark blurs her vision, and she squints her eyes as she evaluates the position. Daenerys and Jon scowl at each other as if they're about to rip their throats open. Arya has moved next to Grey Worm at some point, the latter looking ready to defend his queen, while her smirking sister amuses herself splendidly apparently. Lord Varys stands by the door, seemingly calm and, how interesting, wearing a little smile. What's he playing at? Bran said that he has doubts, perhaps he's open to switch alliances? Stop it, Sansa berates herself, that's for later to deal with, right now the looming repeat of the dance of the dragons needs to be avoided. No, Jon isn't a dragon. He's her brother and a Stark.

Taking a deep breath, she then clears her throat and says “My lords,” loudly to get everyone's attention. She can't say if she succeeded, but tries to redeem the situation anyway, “It's been a long week, and our nerves are a bit strained it seems. Perhaps we should continue the conversation after we all had some proper rest.”

It goes unheeded, and so she grabs Jon's arm, tugging at him. He swings around, snarling. “Perhaps we should all get some rest,” she repeats pointedly. He blinks a few times, but then his gaze softens. She keeps her hand wrapped around his arm anyway, just to be safe. “Your Grace,” she addresses Daenerys, hoping to sound appeasing. She's aware of how hollow it must ring, considering that every word she'd said so far had been dripping with loathing. “We should-"

She doesn't get further when Her Grace’s vitriolic glare lands on her, and she hisses, “You'll regret this when all your loved-" 

Jon lunges at her with a growl so deep and feral, it makes Sansa shudder as she pulls him back with all her strength. “Jon, no!”

“You’ll burn for this!” Daenerys screams into his face, and her children seem eager to make that happen right away, while Ghost wants to stop her from taking even one more breath. 

“Ghost, no!” Sansa shouts, grabbing him by the fur with her free hand, and yanks him away from his target, too. 

The attempted attack causes Daenerys to stumble backwards, but her hands find the edge of the table just in time before she falls over, and of course, that's when Grey Worm moves into action as well. Arya's faster though, and with a kick in the back of his knee, she has him on the ground in front of her, the blade of her dagger firmly at his throat. 

“Move, and your pretty face is mine,” she gnarls, and her captive’s eyes widen in realisation. There goes this secret, Sansa thinks and groans when she notices that everyone else has their swords, daggers, and knives drawn, too, ready to spill blood.

“You need to calm down!” 

It falls on deaf ears, again, and she can't do anything but to clutch at Jon and his direwolf, retaining them with all her might, as both try to get off the leash, baring their teeth and eyes locked onto their prey, who's shouting promises of painful deaths. Gods, she knew better, and yet Sansa just couldn't play nice and had to poke the dragon bitch- queen. She wants to scream, or cry. Just a couple of hours ago, she'd declared cockily that she’d know how to beat Daenerys without anyone needing to get harmed, and now the game seems to end in a bloodshed before it even has truly begun. Her arms burn and her fingers hurt from the exertion, and both wolves are about to slip free. Out of desperation, she pulls Jon harshly against herself, and slings her arm around his chest, clawing at his jerkin, caging him in an embrace, while trying not to lose hold on Ghost. It's easy to forget that the direwolf is a predatory beast, with him being so cute and gentle most of the time, and it seems that the same is true for Jon. She's never noticed how broad his chest is, and so solid.

“Remember. Not now. Not like this,” she whispers into his ear, her cheek lightly brushing his, and the soft scratchiness of his beard makes her skin tingle. He stills, and a few short moments later nods. Her breath hitches when the action causes his cheek to rub a bit firmer against hers, and the tingling turns into a shiver running all through her. She steps back, releases him and turns to her sister again. “Arya, let go off Grey Worm and take Ghost away. Everyone else lower your weapons! There's no need for them!”

At last, they listen, and Arya frees Grey Worm, who seems to want to attack her right away, but refrains from doing so, clearly having her warning still in his mind. As Arya leads Ghost with soothing strokes into the corner behind them, the rest of their respective entourages put their weapons away, as well. The dragons outside also seem to calm down, their cries less and farer away, which also normalises the light in the chamber. Sansa sighs, and turns her attention back to Daenerys. 

Odd, is her first reaction when she takes her in. She seems to have regained her composure, at least her eyes aren't glittering with fury anymore. Instead, she appears to be in thought, while her gaze flickers somewhat intrigued between Sansa and Jon, and then she smirks. It's a bit eerie. Nothing about this is even in the slightest amusing.

Anyway, they have a plan, sort of, and Sansa takes a careful step forward. When the other woman doesn't seem opposed, she continues until she's close enough that her hushed words only reach Daenerys’ ears. “I'm sure there's a way we can both get what we want.”

“Really?” Daenerys whispers back, eyebrows raised. “And what exactly is it that you want?”

It's such a strange question. “You know what I, what the North wants.”

The other hums, and it's confusing. Are these signs of Targaryen madness? 

“Who else knows?”

“Only us,” Sansa confirms, glad to be back on safe ground, in a way. “But should something happen to either of us, it won't stay a secret.”

“You betrayed me, why should I believe a word you say?”

“I haven't betrayed you.”

She takes her time to respond, and it's nerve-racking. Her promises of the greatest fire the North has ever seen still ringing in Sansa's ears. Half an eternity later, the dragon queen finally nods, and she releases a relieved breath. All that's left to do now is to assure the others that it was just a little quarrel amongst friends. How, after what they've just witnessed, she doesn't have the slightest idea, but apparently Daenerys has.

“Obviously, we're all stressed and tired, and Lord Snow had been right when he said that sometimes fights ‘just’ happen,” she lies with such ease and a sweet smile, Sansa is a little impressed. “Of course,” she continues, walking about the chamber, “we all need some time to regain strength after we defeated the Night King and his horrendous army.” Pausing to take a deep breath, she then admits, “It seems that my wish to free the poor people of Kings Landing may have blinded me for the needs of mine and yours.” 

Oh, she's good, Sansa thinks, and watches astounded as Daenerys stops in front of Jon, extending her arm, as if it's a peace offering, as if he'd be her equal. He doesn't know what to make of it either, staring at his – whatever she is to him now, his nemesis? –, before tentatively accepting the offer, nodding tersely in acknowledgement, as they seal the deal, so to speak. 

“Dragons aren't exactly known for their unflappable temper, I'm afraid,” she says, almost jesting, and it's baffling, and charming, and it gets the job done, relaxing their audience perceptibly. “Well, I think we should tell our men the good news, and call it a day. I wish you all a restful night,” she finishes, and it's an obvious dismissal.

It takes a few minutes for everyone to leave the chamber. Tyrion, Missandei and Davos hesitate and need additional assurance that there's really no need to worry, but eventually they're alone, only Arya and Grey Worm still with them, for security, Sansa guesses.

Daenerys doesn't waste time to let the facade drop, and declares, "I'll listen to your proposal of how you think we can coexist in peace, Lady Stark, tomorrow morning. I must say, I'm already curious.” She averts her eyes from Sansa and turns to Jon, and seethes venomously, “Either way, I'll leave this rotten hellhole full of backstabbing liars before tomorrow's over. So, I suggest you use your remaining time wisely.”

With that, she and Grey Worm stride out, while the Starks watch after them, stunned into silence. Remaining time?

“Hmmm, did that go according to plan?” Arya wonders after a while, kneeling down to Ghost.

“Well, we're still alive and won a night, so I'd say, yes?”

Jon starts to chuckle, it's strangely infectious, and soon all three heartily laugh, which is how Ser Davos finds them, clearly surprised at their almost hysterical state. 

“Is this not a good time?” He asks, and it only fuels their laughter. Sansa feels tears running down her cheeks.

“What is it?” Jon asks between heavy breaths, trying to calm down. 

“Am I right in assuming that our alliance with the Targaryen Queen is broken?”

“It's under re-evaluation,” Sansa hiccups.

“Ah. Well, that's a bit unexpected,” he replies, looking meaningful at Jon. No, Sansa thinks cheerfully, there won't be a wedding.

“It's better than the expected alternative,” Arya chimes in, leisurely sitting on the ground and playing with Ghost, who found his bone again.

“Is it?” Davos retorts, all serious. “Because, while we've watched Jon and Daenerys sharpening their knives in here, everyone else watched the dragons doing the same out there.”

“What?” Jon walks over to the window. But her beasts must have flown away, no sounds from them can be heard anymore.

“The people say that they've fought against each other.”

“Did they hurt anyone?”

“Gladly not. Apparently, they've stopped around the time when you've come to your senses and refrained from trying to attack their mother.”

“She threatened my family,” Jon declares, forgotten that just this morning he had been singing an entirely different tune.

“I see. It makes one wonder if both dragons still belong to her, doesn't it?”

Sansa doesn't have a clue what he's insinuating, and neither have Jon and-

“I know!” Arya calls out, excitedly jumping up. “A dragon has only one rider!”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Jon has a dragon now, and Daenerys has one less!”

Sansa doesn't know much about dragons and its riders, she never paid much attention to these kinds of details, but she knows that she doesn't like it. Jon isn't a dragon, and he doesn't need one.

“I thought, it let you ride it because of your relationship with Daenerys, but I guess that's not it,” Davos muses, glancing scrutinisingly at his lord. “On my way here, I remembered something Princess Shireen once told me about old Valyria, and I'm wondering if you know anything about that?” 

Now, if he says it like that, it seems kind of obvious that Jon must be of Valyrian blood. How come that no one wondered about it yet? Or worse, what if they have and only she was utterly oblivious?

“Must be that his mother was from Essos,” Arya suggests, and Sansa nods in agreement. That's plausible, isn't it?

“Yes, that must be it,” Davos replies, but she can't say if he's convinced or not. Another thing to deal with later. Time is once again, or still, running.

“Thank you for informing us,” she says, and then turns to Jon. “Maybe it'd be best if you and Arya go downstairs to talk to and calm the people? I have to take care of a few things, now that our guests stay for a little while longer.”

Jon nods. “We'll meet again in an hour,” he says, and then leaves with Arya and Ser Davos.

Time flies so blazingly fast as if chased, Sansa thinks, standing at the window in the Lord's chamber and watching the sun already setting. She believes there's one of the dragons flying in the distance, alone. Somehow, it's a sad sight, she thinks, knowing all too well how it is to feel left behind, to have to face the bitter world with no one by her side. But not anymore, she doesn't have to fight every battle everywhere all by herself, she has a pack again. A pack that's once more discussing the advantages and disadvantages of killing Daenerys. Sansa heaves a deep sigh and rests her forehead against the pane.

They know what their opponent wants, the Iron Throne and to rule all of Westeros, but that's where easy ends and difficult begins. Sansa realised a few interesting things about Daenerys today, and it makes her think that whatever she has meant with ‘remaining time’ is not as worrisome as it might seem. Arya disagrees, though, and still insists that getting rid of her is the best way to solve the problem, especially since Jon has a dragon now. Her sister makes it sound, as if it's a gift from the gods. How would Ghost feel about that?

“We don't really know if Rhaegal only listens to me now!” Jon argues, and they don't, because he refuses to find out, however that works, Sansa thinks, and turns back to them.

“Even if,” she interjects. “Grey Worm understood your warning earlier, and he'll probably watch his queen every second of the day and night now. What do you think he'll do should she behave out of the ordinary? He still has the Unsullied and Dothraki to command, and they would overrun us.”

That puts the issue to rest, hopefully finally, and they move on to other options. Bran told them, that Daenerys had granted the Iron Islands their independence, but that had been before she came here and when she still needed their ships. 

“As long as she sees a benefit, she is capable of acting against her impulses,” Jon confirms Sansa's thoughts. “And I guess the Iron Islands were a small price to finally return.”

“But when he arrived in Winterfell, Theon had knelt and said that his sister would secure the Iron Islands for her, not for them, so I guess their freedom was only temporary,” Sansa says. “Would Yara Greyjoy, a queen in her own right, just accept that without any defiance? Wouldn't the Ironborn rather fight for their independence, than for a Targaryen conqueror who doesn't respect their agreement? And what about Dorne? I doubt that Daenerys has won their unwavering loyalty, either. Do we even know how the people there felt about Ellaria Sand usurping the Martells? And who is ruling Dorne now that she's dead?” The others shrug, and she sighs again, something she does a lot this day. “I wish Bran was here. We need to know these things.”

“No, we don't,” Jon disagrees. “We need to use our remaining time wisely, and come up with a proposal that she can't refuse. So, any ideas?”

A few hours later, Sansa lies in her bed, but sleep just won't come. They have discussed various approaches, went through all sorts of scenarios, tried to predict all possible outcomes until their throats were hoarse and their eyes heavy, and decided to meet at sunrise to finalise their plan. Alas, she isn't particularly satisfied with what they've come up with. Daenerys might not be entirely unreasonable, alas, she's unreliable. And just because they believe it's beneficial to her, doesn't mean that she thinks so. Besides, her clear disregard of her agreement with the Ironborn, proves that whatever they can agree upon will be short-lived anyway. If she wouldn't part with some small islands, she'd never part with half of Westeros. 

What really keeps Sansa awake is Jon's stubborn refusal to even consider revealing his true name. His claim to the Iron Throne is the only right way to go forward, no matter how much he indulges in wishful thinking. Huffing, she gets up, and puts her robe and slippers on. Isn't there some strange animal in Essos that buries its head in the sand when in danger, pretending it's not there just because it can't see it anymore? 

She doesn't know what time it is, but the hour of the wolf has surely passed when she knocks on his door. Yet, she isn't surprised when he instantly calls, “Come in.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, he looks up and smiles weakly, “I knew, you'd come.”

He looks so exhausted, still dressed, only jerkin and boots taken off, his hair ruffled and eyes glassy, and Sansa feels slightly guilty for not allowing him even a few hours respite.

“You didn't let me finish earlier,” she says, standing in the middle of the chamber.

Jon instantly tenses up, as expected. “I've told you, I'll be Aegon Targaryen if nothing else works, but we haven't even tried another way." The hurt underneath is so evident, it reminds her of when they were young and he spent too much time sulking in some corner.

“It's just a name, it doesn't make you who you are.” He huffs and rolls his eyes, hiding his vulnerability behind it. “You're still the same person you've always been.”

It wasn't the right thing to say, she knows, as Jon hangs his head, murmuring, “And who is that?” 

He sounds defeated, and Sansa can't have that. So, she sits down next to him, and takes his hand for comfort. “You're a wolf of Winterfell, ice runs through your veins, and you endure whatever shit life throws at you. You're a good man, the best I know.” He snorts, gaze still fixed to the ground, but squeezing her hand. “You know I'm right, because I'm smarter than everyone.”

He raises his head and looks appropriately abashed. “She told you?! I didn't mean-”

“Why? It's true, and it would be much easier if you would just accept it and do as I say.”

“I bet.”

They chuckle a little, and it's nice, Sansa thinks as silence falls over them. Nothing can be heard, only their breathing, like the whole world's in deep slumber with only them awake. No, Daenerys won't be asleep either, she knows.

“So, if that dragon-”

“I don't want it.”

“You don't want the dragon, you don't want the Iron Throne, what do you want?”

Glancing into the fire in the hearth, he sighs, “A simple life in peace.”

Sansa laughs. “Yes, that'd be wonderful. But do you know what simple looks like? Because I don't.”

“No,” he admits, smiling. “But it doesn't involve thrones and dragons.” 

She hums, pondering how else to broach the subject, but doubts that another tantrum can be avoided. “Have you felt connected to it, or something, when you rode it?” He doesn't answer, but the deep frown on his face tells her all she needs to know. “If Davos made the connection, then others will too, if they haven't already. Tyrion is a drunk, and too enamoured with his own brilliance, but he's still a walking library. Lord Varys is called the Spider for a reason, he must know things we have no idea about whatsoever. Plus, they and too many others remember what happened back then, they were there. What if they start asking questions? What's more likely, Jon? That honourable Ned Stark had a bastard, or that he would only claim so to protect his sister's son from Robert Baratheon’s wrath?” 

He shuts his eyes, and it aches to add to his pain, but it can't be helped. “For our freedom that name is the best you could have.”

“Sansa,” he whispers pleading.

“I wish it wouldn't be so, but you are the key to the North's independence, and for the people, for us, we have to,” she pauses, and finishes softly, “use you.”

Unsurprisingly, that's when he shoots up, but only then does Sansa notice that their hands are still linked. Jon too seems taken aback, and drops hers like a hot stone, before starting to pace around. Her hand feels numb and cold. 

“You once said the North is a part of you. You said, all you've done was to protect us, that you'd never stop fighting, and now-”

“Don't tell me it's just another sacrifice I have to make! Just some more shit I have to endure like the proper Stark I'm not!"

“You're her weakness! And not because she loves you so, but because she believes, and needs everyone else to believe, that she's special, that she is the chosen one. But your existence proves that she's not! And if that dragon-”

“I burn!” He exclaims, waving his scarred hand, as if that would make a difference. It does, just not like he thinks.

“That makes you human, it makes you the more relatable Targaryen, and not some otherworldly creature from times long past. The people will always choose you, Jon. Never her.”

“I don't want to be chosen.”

She huffs. All this humble talk about a simple life. “You didn't hesitate to accept it when they called you King in the North, while I was sitting right next to you.”

“I-"

“I'm not saying that to make you feel bad. But I think your insistence that you don't want it is horseshit. You just think that's what you should say, what you should feel, so that no one can think you just another bastard that usurped his trueborn siblings.”

He chuckles darkly. “I wish I was still a bastard.”

This isn't going anywhere, Sansa thinks, standing up and obstructing his passage to force him to look at her, and to listen. “Bastard or trueborn, Jon or Aegon, you are our king, and you're the best Westeros has seen in- decades? Centuries? But she won't ever be a good queen. Did we fight so hard for a life in captivity? Because that's what it will be, you know that better than I do. You think, our people will accept that? They barely tolerate her.” 

Jon's face hardens, and he asks mocking, “Is this your proposal for a peaceful coexistence? Because I can't see how that will keep her from burn-”

“You honestly think we can convince her to let us live as we wish here until we all grow old? Never, not after what happened today, and not with you alive. She'll find a way to silence us, so that you'll only be king in name. She'll marry me and Arya off to men loyal to her and use us as bait to keep you in line. And as soon as she has secured her power, all of House Stark will die.”

So stubborn, she thinks as Jon shakes his head. Then again, had she been better? After Bran and Arya returned, and it became clear very quickly that both aren’t as she remembered them, she had told herself again and again that all would be fine once Littlefinger’s gone, once Jon's back, once the Others are defeated, once this or that happened, but she knows now, nothing will ever be fine, unless they're free.

“Do you know that it was Arya who wiped out House Frey?” Jon's eyes widen in shock and she nods as she sits back on the bed. “She killed one of old Walder’s sons, made a pie out of him, and served it to his father. Can you imagine that, and what she had to do to prepare the body for that? And then she poisoned the wine and watched them drop dead.” Jon gulps, and sits back down again, as well. “She has a list of people she wants to kill, and she was on her way to Kings Landing when she heard that we've won Winterfell back, so she came home instead. She cares more about us than her revenge, but for how long if we lose everything again? As much as I appreciate the Frey's suffering, and as much as I want Cersei gone, and whoever else is on that list, I don't want her to spend her life thirsty for vengeance that likely gets her killed. I want her to be free and happy.

“And Bran became something altogether different. On the day he returned we sat at the Heart Tree, and I told him that he'd be Lord of Winterfell now. He was back only for half an hour or so, but I had it all figured out in my head already, how wonderful our life would be. How I could help him running the castle, how he could take up some responsibilities, like a bannerman or something, while you'd be busy with whatever kingly business.” She laughs at herself a little, and Jon glances at her with gentle eyes, a warm smile with a hint of amusement playing around his lips at her apparently undying naivety to have still believed that wishes could come true. Though, the smile dies quickly as she continues, “But he said that he can't be lord of anything, and to show me what being the Three-Eyed Raven means, he told me what a beautiful night it was when I married Ramsey. That it had been snowing then, too, and that I looked beautiful in the white wedding dress.”

“Sansa,” he whispers, and raises his hand a little, but before he takes hers, he pulls it back. 

“The boy we once knew would've never said something so hurtful, but sometimes I think he's still there when he looks or moves a certain way that's so Bran.” She inhales deeply, and declares, “It doesn't matter. He's our brother, and he can't defend himself, but will always be in danger from everyone who has dark secrets to hide. So, you and I have to take care of them both, we have to give them the life they deserve, no matter the cost.”

She thinks of a storm growing, enthralled by the darkening expression on his face, by his penetrating gaze surveying hers. She feels like he's laying her soul bare, and it makes her feel all sorts of things, but mostly nervous. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that here's another thing to deal with later, or perhaps never.

“There is no peaceful coexistence,” she says, low and hoarse, but determined. “Not with Daenerys and not with Cersei, not with anyone who wants to take away what's ours. We have to play the game until only we are still standing.”

His jaw clenches into a hard line, and his piercing eyes sparkle, so dark and deep, it reminds her of a bottomless hole, a void to get lost in with no escape. Later, perhaps never.

“Tell me then, Sansa, how do we win?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and comments make me happy and keep me motivated! So, please let me know what you think.


	6. Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> This chapter was quite challenging. For a while I wasn't sure if I should even include Bran's POV, because how does one write one for a character that seemingly has no emotions? Well, since I also disliked their version of Bran in the last season I figured I should try to "fix" that, too. So, I tried to give him back a personality. Not sure if I succeeded, but well, here it is. I hope you'll like it.

“The boy we once knew would've never said something so hurtful, but sometimes I think he's still there when he looks or moves a certain way that's so Bran,” Sansa says, and it makes him pause. Bran remembers how her eyes had watered when he shared details of her wedding night that only she could know. Perhaps he should've picked another moment, but the Starks had only known pain and death since they've left Winterfell all those years ago. And Bran has seen it all. 

At the Great Sept of Baelor, he had stood by his father's side when Joffrey had called for his head. He had watched his mother and Robb die at the Red Wedding. He had seen Rickon run for his life, trying to escape Ramsey's arrows, and failing. He had witnessed Jon's murder by his sworn black brothers, and how the Red Woman brought him back with her dangerous magic. He had seen Arya's first kill, almost an accident while still in Kings Landing, and every other since then, knows her list just a well as she does. He had been in the throne room with Sansa every time they'd beaten her up for her family's ‘treasons', had followed her to the Vale and back home again into the clutches of another monster. No, there aren't many happy memories, but in hindsight he probably should have chosen a different moment anyway, like when she had fed Ramsey to his hounds. He imagines that it's a happy one for her.

“There is no peaceful coexistence,” Sansa says now, almost whispering for some reason. “Not with Daenerys and not with Cersei, not with anyone who wants to take away what's ours. We have to play the game until only we are still standing.”

Jon stares at his sister, and Bran isn't sure why his gaze is so darkly intense. Not for the first time he thinks it would be easier if he could also look into people's minds. He finds his ability to read facial expressions lacking, there are so many different nuances how humans show their emotions, a lot of the time he's just guessing. He supposes not feeling much does not optimally equip him to- Bran huffs sarcastically. ‘Not feeling much’ is becoming increasingly relative these days, and he doesn't quite know what to make of it. No, that's not true, he finds it-

“-we win?” he hears the last words of Jon's question. Distracting! Feelings make him inattentive when he should be most focused! Why is this happening? He wonders, and almost misses when Sansa begins to elaborate her plan.

When she has finished, Bran assumes that it's probably time to go back. Another thing that would be helpful is if time would move differently or better not at all while he visits the past. Alas, it is and he hasn't figured out yet how to jump forward or backward within one memory, if it is even possible. But when he opens his eyes the sun has not yet risen behind the trees, and he guesses it will be a couple of hours more until it does. Ser Brienne sleeps by the fire, while Ser Jaime keeps watch. It's been only half a day and a night since they've left Winterfell, and Bran's already tired of his company. If he could've used the time during the day to watch what was happening at home it wouldn't be so bad, but he almost fell off the horse when he tried, caught in time by the Lannister. Ironic, he knows. They’ve left in such a hurry, he hadn't time to think the logistics through and spontaneously chose to get his own horse with the new saddle that was made for him after his return. Young Bran had loved riding, and Sansa had asked if the Three-Eyed Raven isn't allowed to enjoy things, too, to have some fun in the here and now. To which he had answered that the Three-Eyed Raven neither knows joy nor sorrow.

He had told Meera that he wouldn't be Brandon Stark anymore, that he only remembers what it felt like to be him, and at that time he had believed that to be true. He isn't so sure anymore. After the Long Night he is experiencing strange rushes of emotions, and he doesn't like it, which in itself is an emotional reaction. When the old Three-Eyed Raven had transferred all this vast knowledge to him, something inside shut down, and with the Night King approaching, he had been occupied to get prepared, to put all the relevant fragments into one piece. It's true that Bran remembers everything, but he doesn't know everything unless he goes looking. It's like a library in his head, but he needs to find the right book first. However, now that the Night King has been destroyed, whatever had been shut inside him dares to open itself again, apparently. It's been much simpler to keep uninvolved and unattached to everything and everyone, including himself. He suspects that's why the old man went beneath the tree, but to end up like that is not something Bran finds especially worth striving for.

‘The things we do for love,’ he thinks, and it annoys him how mocking he sounds, as he watches Jaime Lannister, who hasn't noticed yet that he's awake. It looks as if he has found a new love, what with him glancing to the sleeping knight, and all those smiles and whispers yesterday. It's so obvious, even he understands what's going on. Naturally, Bran isn't interested in that. Love seems to be uncomfortable, messy and ends more often than not in a disaster. Who in their right mind would ever want that? But he can't even choose. He can't do anything by himself, just like Sansa said. He needs help to get to places, he needs help to get into bed and out of it, to clean up and to dress, he can't even take care of his bodily needs by himself, and he can't defend himself, instead people have to die for him. All because of Jaime Lannister and the things he does for love.

Bran had told him that he wouldn't be of use in the Long Night if he'd be dead, and that's why he hasn't told anyone that Jaime had pushed him out of the window. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either, Bran knows, studying the man's profile. He knew that should they succeed against the Others, they would have to deal with the next enemy endangering their lives and freedom, and because Jon had brought her right into their home, they had no time to waste. Bran has seen everything Daenerys has done, has seen everything her father and brothers have done, and it's not difficult to predict her future. “When my dragons are grown, we will take back what was stolen from me and destroy those who have wronged me. We will lay waste to armies and burn cities to the ground. Turn us away and we will burn you first,” she had once said. In the end, Aerys had accused everyone to be out to wrong him, and he had promised to destroy them, to lay waste to their armies, too. Burn them all, burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds.

Most despise the Mad King, but hardly anyone knows the depth of his cruelty and madness. If they would, Jaime would've been celebrated for saving them from the inferno that was about to come crashing down on them. He had been about Bran's age then, and perhaps things would've turned out differently if he would've received the praise he deserved, instead of being called Kingslayer for most of his life. The ink isn't really dry, Bran knows that since Hodor had to hold the door, but then he also learned to never try to change the past. It hadn't been deliberate, everything had happened so fast, he didn't know what he was doing, but nevertheless, he had taken Wylis choices away, too, because of his recklessness. No, Brandon Stark hasn't died in that cave, but sometimes-

It is what it is, he doesn't feel sorry for himself, and if he could change it, he doesn't know if he would. The Three-Eyed Raven has a purpose. What is this knowledge worth if humankind repeats its mistakes over and over again? It hasn't been even a year since Daenerys returned, and she's already started burning those who haven't chosen her, who turned her away. She isn't Westeros’ salvation, she's Westeros’ doom, and Jaime Lannister knows this better than anyone. Which is why he's still alive, Bran thinks before leaving the here and now behind once more.

Daenerys sits by the hearth, a blanket thrown over her shoulders, staring into the fire. How small she looks, so unlike the woman who gathers masses of warriors to fight for her, to leave their homes, the lives they're used to behind. Dragons and walking unburnt through fire are probably very convincing, Bran reckons, but Jon can motivate people to fight for him just as well. Although, he'd say, with him, which is a crucial difference. Jon would never ask the men to fight for what he wants, for what he thinks he deserves, only ever for their own benefit, and they will follow him again, Bran is certain. Everyone thinks him the greatest swordsman that ever walked, and everywhere they tell the tale of how he has died for the North only to raise again to fight more and more, and that's just as convincing.

A knock on the door disrupts Daenerys’ and Bran's musings, and putting the blanket away, she stands up, straightens her posture, and calls, “Come in.” 

Tyrion Lannister enters, looking sober but tired and, Bran thinks, cautious. “I'm sorry for the intrusion, I know you've said you wanted to be left alone, but I think we need to talk.”

Daenerys sighs, and motions inviting with her hand to the armchair next to hers, before sitting back down. Walking towards her, he says, “That's quite the security Grey Worm has placed outside your chamber. It makes one wonder how much you trust our hosts.” Daenerys doesn't reply, so he climbs on the armchair and continues, “I guess it's advisable after what happened at the council meeting with our ‘allies’. I must say, it surprised me.”

They don't know them, Bran thinks, they don't know the wolves of Winterfell, because he hasn't been surprised at all. Once a certain line has been crossed, once the wolf has been poked one time too often, anger takes control over sense, and all of them are prone to act first before thinking. So of course, Jon would lose his calm when she threatened his family, like when he had almost choked Littlefinger to death in the crypts after he declared his love for Sansa. Jon saw right through the lie, Bran knows, there's little his brother's- cousin's eyes did not see after all, and he knew that it was just another manoeuvre in Baelish’s game. And Sansa's been hellbent to provoke the Targaryen queen from the moment she arrived. There's just something about Daenerys that makes her almost careless of the consequences. Recklessness seems to be a familial trait, too, Bran muses sardonically.

“What do you want to talk about?”

Tyrion takes a deep breath before answering, watching her closely, “Have I ever told you how fascinated with dragons I've been as a boy? How I always dreamed of having one?” He waits a moment, but she doesn't answer. “But I knew, even if they hadn't been extinct, that I could never ride a dragon because sadly, I'm not a descendant of the dragonlords of old Valyria.”

Averting her face, she stares into the fire again. “Why haven't you said anything before?”

“I assumed you knew, and up until a few hours ago I was under the impression that you and him were,” he trails off when he sees Daenerys closing her eyes. “What happened today?” He asks, voice low. “Who is Jon Snow?”

“Rhaegar’s son.”

Bran can see how Tyrion puts the pieces together within a few seconds. “That explains a lot,” he mumbles under his breath, but Daenerys still heard it and gives him a questioning look. “All of Westeros had wondered who possibly bewitched dull, honourable Ned Stark so, that he would forsake his vows. Now, it's kind of underwhelming how obvious the answer was the whole time.”

“Underwhelming?”

“The man breathed honour and duty, so of course the only reason for him to ever forsake both would be to protect his family.”

She snorts. “And now his family has not only stolen my birthright, but my child, too. How could Viserys forget to tell me that only Targaryens can ride dragons?” She wonders astounded, and then sighs, “Maybe he didn't know either. He was only seven years old when we fled Westeros.”

“Even if he knew, dragons had been only creatures if the past, and it must've seemed unnecessary to delve into the specifics of dragonriding."

“Perhaps,” she murmurs, and then shakes her head. “I suspected something was off after he had ridden him the first time and Rhaegal seemed so taken with him. But I ignored it, like I've ignored-,” she halts, and then throws a dark glance at her Hand. “But I wasn't wrong, was I? I've told you, that Jon Snow isn't in love with me, but you insisted that he would clearly not ‘stare at me longingly’ just in hopes for a military alliance, haven't you?”

The change is immediate and Bran sees fear creeping into Tyrion's face. “I don't- I know what I saw, truly! I don't know what happened today, but he must-,” Tyrion stutters. “It can't have been all lies, can it? I don't believe that Jon would-"

“Would pretend to be in love with me to protect his family and people against a seemingly unbeatable foe? Like Ned Stark wouldn't dishonour his wife, betray his king, to save his sister's child from certain death?”

Staring at his queen, Tyrion shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and whispers, “I'm sorry.”

“It's done,” she states and turns her head back to face the fire. “And it's a lesson I won't ever forget.”

They fall silent, and after a while Bran wonders again if he can fast forward or something. It's most tedious to wait for something to happen when it's not certain that something will happen in the first place. But then the Lannister reliefs him when he says, “The whole castle saw the dragons fight, and needless to say, it raised some questions.”

“I imagine,” Daenerys murmurs, and Bran thinks he sees a small smirk around her lips.

“Had he asked you to ride Rhaegal? Did Jon know then-”

“No, it had been my idea. He was scared shitless the whole time. It had been quite amusing.”

“He didn't know about his true parentage?”

“No. Maybe he lied then, too, but he told me that he learned about it from Samwell Tarly later that night. Apparently, he had found papers at the Citadel that proved that my brother had annulled his marriage to Elia Martell to marry Lyanna Stark instead.”

Tyrion’s eyes widen. “He's legitimate?” She nods. “That does complicate things,” he murmurs. 

“You think?” She scoffs, and stands up. “I should never have come here. I've lost my claim, I've lost two children, I've lost Jorah, I've lost my- He fooled me, he betrayed me. He and his sisters and his strange brother, and I won't let them get away with it,” she seethes, starting to pace in front of the hearth, forcing Bran to step aside.

“As much as I understand your desire for revenge, burning Winterfell-"

“Oh, I'm not burning Winterfell, not if they have any sense and agree to my proposal for a ‘peaceful coexistence’,” she states derisively.

“What?”

“Your oh so lovely former wife insists that we could all live together in peace and still get what we want. She thinks she's so clever,” Daenerys mocks. “She and Jon must have been laughing behind my back all this time about how stupid I am, how easily manipulated.”

“I don't think-"

She halts and glares down at her Hand. “You don't know them. You've spent some time with Jon years ago, when he was still a green boy. Sansa was a captive of your family, and had been forced to marry you. How blinded by her pretty face must you be that you believe anything she has said or done to be genuine?” Tyrion looks almost sad, but nods a little. “And Arya, the hero of Winterfell, is one of the Faceless Men, and-"

“What?!”

“Grey Worm thinks so. He says it would explain her extraordinary fighting skills he has witnessed in the training yard. And from what I understand of their brother being the Three-Eyed Crow-"

“Raven, I think.”

She shrugs, “He's so quiet, so detached, so easy to overlook, but he’s the most dangerous of them. He knows everything that ever happened, he knows every secret, every bad deed, every mistake. Can you imagine what he could do with that kind of knowledge?”

“I've spoken with him at the feast, and I don't think he wants to do anything with it. I don't think he even considers himself a Stark anymore.”

“Please,” Daenerys retorts, waving her hand dismissively, and starting to pace again. “That's just another attempt to lull us into a false sense of security. None of them can be trusted.” She halts and exhales loudly. Knowing Sansa's plan, Bran thinks, she's certainly not wrong to distrust them. “I've been nothing but generous, saved their lives, was willing to bury past animosities, but they used my offered friendship, my believe in the good of people, against me. You all talk about the Starks as if they're honour incarnate, but they don't even know the meaning of that word.”

Tyrion looks uncomfortable when he asks, “What is your proposal for a peaceful coexistence?”

Daenerys smiles, darkly. “When he had told me the truth, I wanted it to never see the light of day again. But I've been thinking a lot in the last hours, and I've changed my mind.”

“Why? His claim trumps yours, and now he even has a dragon.”

“How well do you think these hateful Northerners will react to the truth that their king is a Targaryen? How well will they take that their beloved Jon Snow has bent the knee to his aunt? Do you think that they will believe him that he hasn't known? That he just jumped on a dragon because the mood struck him?”

“When you say it like that, it's likely they'll scream Targaryen conspiracy.”

She grins. “You said that what happened today raised some questions, but I'm sure they must have already wondered about it, about us. People talk, and I think we can assume that it's common knowledge that we were ‘close'. They're unreasonably prickly about our traditions in that regard, and what can he say? That he seduced me before he knew the truth only to manipulate me for my help? Or, that he actually fell in love with me, but then didn't anymore once he found out that I'm his aunt? Neither is especially honourable nor believable, isn't it?”

Shaking his head, he replies, “No, none of it will make him look good.”

It clearly delights her, and almost cheerful she goes on, “I know I can't hold the North. Not right now, anyway. I could burn it all to the ground, of course, but were would be the fun in that?” She wonders, and sits back down, while Tyrion gulps at her choice of words. “I've learned something very interesting today, besides that Jon Snow is a liar. And as much as he deserves my justice, I think I'd enjoy it more to have him suffer for longer than just a few painful minutes.”

“What did you learn?” Her Hand asks tentatively, clearly not sure if he really wants to know.

Chuckling, Daenerys leans back in her armchair. “It's not important right now. What does matter is that I have realised that the truth solves a few issues, and I think it's high time we Targaryens and the Starks bury the hatchet once and for all. You've told me yourself, that there's no better way to secure an alliance than through a marriage.”

What?! Bran thinks, and his eyes widen just like Tyrion's. “They won't ever agree to that! And the lords! You've just said-”

“I would think they'll see how generous I am not only sparing their lives after what they've done today, but to gift them their independence. I'll even let him choose which of his ‘sisters' it will be, and it will be up to them to convince their people of the benefits a union between our houses has.”

Looking unconvinced, he contemplates it a moment. “If it guarantees our ‘peaceful coexistence’,” he says, and falls back against the cushions, “it's at least worth a try.”

Worth a try? Bran snorts. There's no way in all hells that Jon or Sansa, let alone Arya, would agree to that. Damn it, he thinks, he had hoped to return home after two days, perhaps three, and now it looks as if he has to spend an undefined amount of time in the woods again. He had enough of that for a lifetime, and Meera isn't even there.

Turning his attention back to Daenerys, she looks almost pitying at her Hand. “Who would Westeros rally behind? A Targaryen queen they don't know, or a Targaryen king they admire? How long do I have until they got used to his true name and demand him to claim the Iron Throne?”

Alerted, Tyrion straightens up in his seat. “Why then, if you-"

“Because I cannot let the opportunity pass to secure the survival of my name, my blood, even as tainted as it will be. And it solves the issue of succession you care about so much. Jon can have the North, but once he has gifted me my heir, well,” she declares with a voice that brooks no dissent, “I've told you, I've been born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will.”

Tyrion's rendered speechless, but after a few moments nods and slides off the armchair. ”It sure will be an interesting morning, so we should get at least a couple of hours rest,” he says, and walks towards the door.

Bran is just about to leave when Tyrion grabs the door handle, but then he turns around, asking, “Does Lord Varys know about your plan?”

“No, only you,” she answers, once more glancing at the flames in the hearth.

“You don't trust him?”

She narrows her eyes and huffs, “I don't trust anyone. Keep that in mind.”

“I won't disappoint you, Your Grace,“ he promises, obviously having understood the warning despite not seeing her face. “Oh, what's Jon's true name anyway?”

Rolling her eyes, she hisses, “Aegon Targaryen.”

“Well, shit.”

“Indeed.”

When Bran opens his eyes again, the sun shines brightly through the trees and Ser Brienne is already roasting some rabbit or squirrel, while Ser Jaime checks on the horses.

“Good morning, Lord Bran,” Sansa's knight says, which he acknowledges with a short nod. 

The meeting between Daenerys and his siblings must start soon, if it hasn't already. He knows it had been the right decision to leave, but he feels useless here. They'll go into that meeting under erroneous assumptions, certain to know what their opponent wants, when in truth she wants something else first. It has been a mistake, Bran knows, due to the fact of such limited time, to spend hours on planning without contemplating that her adversary was doing the same. Then again, would that have changed anything? It's interesting, though, how Sansa's and Daenerys' plans are quite similar in certain aspects. Both require a period of peace to gather strength and to put the necessary pieces in place, and in Daenerys' case at least enough time for an heir to be born. Only, that he doubts that will ever happen, and it's more likely that they'll be at war before the day is over.

“Are we traveling further North today?” Ser Brienne asks.

“No, we stay here. I have to watch what is happening in Winterfell. Depending on the outcome we can either return or need to find a way south without getting seen.”

“Why? Or are we not allowed to know that either?” Jaime asks, and Bran doesn't appreciate his tone.

“You know why!” Great, now he's shouting. But he's tired, he hasn't slept all night, he doesn't like his company, Meera isn't here, and his whole family might be dead by midday. Things really aren't going his way. How could he ever have doubted to still be a Stark?

Regardless, should Daenerys burn Winterfell and survive, the least he can do is making sure she won't ever sit on that damned throne. He inhales deeply, and says calmly, “You've already tried to kill her once, and should need be, you’ll have to try again. Both of you.”

Ser Brienne is about to protest, or to demand more information, but Jaime just sighs, somewhat resigned, “That bad?”

“Worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think?


	7. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> I'm sorry I took so long for this chapter. I've finished my other story, so I hope updates will be more frequent from now on. 
> 
> We're with Arya again, and she has some interesting encounters... I hope you enjoy it!

Seven bloody buggering hells, she's going to be late for the meeting with Daenerys, the maid curses and, with her eyes firmly fixed on the ground, hurries through the halls hoping not to raise anyone's suspicion. Winterfell might be packed with strangers everywhere, nevertheless, it's never good to draw attention. It had been very early still when she had left Arya Stark's chamber undisturbed about an hour ago, but now curious eyes and ears were everywhere and would certainly recognise an unfamiliar face so close to these quarters.

While most have only just finished their breakfast, it already has been quite an eventful day for her. As planned, they've met again at sunrise and Sansa, quite enthusiastically, had updated her about the changes of the plan, which she had agreed upon with Jon sometime after they've said goodnight. She wasn't surprised, her sister had been so obviously dissatisfied with their original plan, of course she had gone to Jon afterwards and pestered him until he gave in. Naturally, he wasn't enthused at all and just sat there moping in silence, except for an occasional disgruntled snort here and there. He'd probably rather fight the Others again than to ever hear anyone calling him Aegon, she thinks smirking. She gets that it's strange and complicated and likely a multitude of other things for Jon, but really, it's just a stupid name that changes nothing of who he is.

The meeting this morning will only be one step, though, the opening move after the prelude yesterday so to speak. To win the game, they need more information and allies. She still finds it risky to involve more outsiders than they already have, what with Bran gone with Brienne and Jaime Lannister, and Sam and Gilly searching for Howland Reed, but she can't refute that Sansa and Jon have a point. The North isn't an island, and their actions might impact all of Westeros. Alas, Bran isn't here, so information has to be gathered another way, hence her running through the halls, wearing the pretty face of the kind girl who had once served old Walder Frey the special pie, after a quite fruitful encounter with a potential ally.

They had decided to evaluate Lord Varys more closely while they still had the chance. They hardly knew anything about the Lord of Whispers, except that he must have a vast, certainly useful, knowledge of all sorts things, and that he has served many kings. Bran told them that he claims to serve the realm, but hadn't elaborated what exactly that means. The realm for the nobility is quite different than it is for the smallfolk, so whose interest has he at heart? Or is he only another Littlefinger, moving people around the board for his own benefit? Bran also said that he has doubts about his queen, but hadn't been specific about that either. Doubts that she's not like her father, or that she'll be useful for his own ambitions? Depending on which turned out to be the case, he needed to be either dealt with, or persuaded to switch his alliance. So, with some time left until the meeting, she had pulled the most fitting face from her satchel, and sought him out. She found him talking with another kitchen maid, who's likely just as much in his service as she's in theirs. When they had finished their business, she had followed him so dilettante as if she'd been begging to get caught, and not five minutes later, he had.

“Aren't you a curious little bird?”

“Why, what do you mean, My Lord?” She had replied, faking surprise and innocence. 

Sansa's been right, it's unfortunate that Grey Worm seemed to have realised what she has been trained to be, and presumably has told his queen and perhaps her advisors of it, too. If Varys would suspect something's off, they wouldn't get another chance, so her performance needed to be perfect. Yet, even after one sentence she had realised that this would be more challenging, because the girl had been originally from the Riverlands, but now she needed to be a true Northerner, and sound like one. 

Disbelieving, but also a hint amused, he had raised his eyebrows and asked with a kind voice, “Pray tell, what has you following me?”

She had hummed and hawed, her eyes guiltily downcast, “Nothing... Really...”

Chuckling, he had taken a little wrapped something out of his sleeve. “Would you care for some chocolate?” 

He sounded so confidence-inspiring, she wouldn't be surprised if half their staff was working for him. She hesitantly took the offered sweet and then murmured, “I've heard that you... and I was wondering...,” she stuttered, and then took a deep breath, before sharing her sad, but common, story. “You see, my parents and big brother are dead, and it's only me and my three little siblings, and I have to provide for them,” the maid explained, a fat tear running down her cheek.

“I understand,” he replied, a friendly smile around his lips. “What's your position here in Winterfell?”

“I help wherever it's needed, like in the kitchens, or cleaning the chambers, and sometimes I help Lady Stark's handmaid,” she had answered as she unwrapped the gift, noticing pleased that Varys’ eyes gleamed delighted at the mention of Sansa.

“And do you like Lady Stark?”

“I do! She's kind, and I would never... But my siblings, they're almost babes still..."

“You are only trying to do your best in these hard times.” She nodded relieved, sniffing a little, as she took the first tentative bite, and instantly a soft moan escaped at the delicious taste, which made him chuckle. “If you answer my questions as truthful as you can, I'll help you.”

“What if I don't know the answer?”

“All I'm asking is that you're honest. Don't lie, do you understand?”

“Aye, My Lord.”

“Good,” he had replied, and gave her another of his hidden treasures, before asking a few easy questions, clearly meant to canvass if she's trustworthy and her insights valuable. However, while he examined her, she did the same, putting the training she received in the House of Black and White into good use, and soon came to think that Lord Varys isn't a second Littlefinger. While it's true that he has risen high, constantly surrounded by kings and queens and whatever other highborns, he doesn't seem to consider himself one of them, but one of hers, the maid's that is. It's only a first impression, yet, but he seemed to truly care about those whose voices were hardly ever heard, unless they rioted, and then got punished for daring to remind their ruler that they were starving. So, would Lord Varys support Jon if he knew that he's a viable and much better option? Or did he already know that? They had noticed that he reacted quite differently to the sudden discord between Jon and his queen than the other bystanders, neither shocked nor worried, instead he had seemed somewhat intrigued, which in turn intrigued them.

The maid had passed the test with flying colours when he changed the directions of his questioning. “Say, I've heard Lady Stark had a disagreement with her brother. Do you know anything about that?”

Good start, she had thought, but with such little time she needed them to get to the point as fast as possible. “Which brother? The weird one or the king?”

“He's still your king then?"

“Oh, that was a mistake! I meant-"

“Don't be afraid. Just be honest, and whatever you say is fine.”

Nodding relieved, she had taken another bite of the chocolate. Admittedly it was the best she'd ever had, and if she'd be a better person, she'd keep enough to share with her siblings later.

“I heard that Lady Stark didn't support Lord Snow's decision to meet with Her Grace, that they even fought in front of all the lords. Is that true?”

The maid refrained from rolling her eyes. Arya hadn't been there, so it was best that the maid wasn't either, but both didn't doubt for a second that perfect little lady Sansa would lose her temper in the most inopportune moments, like yesterday. Honestly, Sansa's tendency to piss off the dragon bitch was becoming increasingly concerning. “Could be. I came to Winterfell a few weeks after he had left. But some lords weren't happy with him gone for so long.” Pausing, she enjoyed the chocolate melting on her tongue. “Lady Stark was angry with him, too. I heard her speak to that lord from the Vale. I forgot the name... something with finger in it, I think. The one who was executed for treason,” she explained and saw his mouth quirking, hiding a satisfied smile. “She had told him that the North will never bow to a stranger again, no matter how pretty His Grace thinks she is.”

He had raised an eyebrow, likely surprised that she shared such a gem so soon. “Do you agree?”

“That your queen is pretty? I guess so.”

“No, do you think the Northerners will never bow to her?”

“She has dragons, only fools wouldn't-,” she had halted, and bitten her lip worried, but went on when he nodded encouragingly. “Have you seen them fight against each other yesterday? That was so frightening! And most still wonder what they eat. I hear that people are trying to hide the little cattle they still have and that they're afraid to leave their houses. Do dragons truly eat people, too?”

An uncomfortable question, she knew, but also one she would've liked to hear his answer to. He chose not to. “Lord Snow rode a dragon, too. That's not scary?”

How easy, the maid had thought, as she broke into a bright smile and sighed deeply, almost dreamily. “He died for the North, but came back to save us from the Others, and isn't that the most heroic deed you've ever heard of? And everyone says he's the greatest swordsman that ever lived,” she rhapsodised. Fine, she gives her brother the coming back from the dead thing, which isn't something she likes to think about anyway, but gods, she wishes all the girls who were oh so in love with him knew what a nag Jon could be, and stop with all this swooning over him. He isn't even that pretty. Besides, he has spent half his life in the training yard, isn't it even more heroic and brave to go into battle without that advantage? Like Gendry, who hasn't ever seen a- Seven hells, the maid had scolded herself, Lord Baratheon had no business being in her mind! “He couldn't ever be scary, he’s one of us. He'll always treat us right.”

“And Daenerys Targaryen wouldn't?”

“I'm sure she will. Though, what they say about her armies... After the big fight yesterday, the people tell things about them. I couldn't sleep the whole night!” Tormund’s clearly a genius. To come up with all these ridiculous rumours that naturally spread like wildfire into every corner of Winterfell afterwards is truly a gift that keeps on giving.

“Those aren't true, I assure you, and Her Grace has sworn to help and protect the people of Westeros, to free them from tyranny. Do you know that she ended slavery in what was once called the Slaver's Bay? They now call it the Bay of Dragons in her honour.”

Lie, the maid had thought, Her Grace had renamed it herself in her own honour, but of course, it sounded much better this way. Regardless, no Northerner would be swayed to be impressed by her ‘good’ deeds in a land far away. Especially not when the whole story, which Bran had shared in the Godswood the day before, becomes known. She hasn't truly liberated anyone, only replaced the masters with herself, and then just left them again to their own fate for her next conquest. Maybe he doesn't know that new masters descended upon Meereen like a raging plague, enslaving them once again within a few short weeks? She really would've liked to tell him, but the maid couldn't know about that either. “Where's that?”

“In Essos.”

“Ah... And what's tyranny?”

“A tyrant is a ruler who uses their power cruelly and unfairly.”

“Like Ramsey Bolton? He flayed people alive as punishment, just because they didn't do as he wished, sometimes for less. That's cruel and unfair, isn't it?” Just like burning people alive for not bending the knee, no?

When Lord Varys answered, the maid could almost hear the doubt, Bran has mentioned, in his voice. “Yes, it is.”

“But the Starks freed us from him, from the tyrant.”

“They did.”

“So, I'm not really sure from what tyranny the queen wants to free us?”

The maid had busied her mouth with the last piece of the chocolate to give Lord Varys some time to ponder about that. He appeared to do just that when he fell quiet for a few minutes, and when he spoke next, something in his voice had changed, almost not there at all, but she heard it all the same. His next questions had sounded like a last attempt, despite him already knowing the answers, and its consequences. “Aren't you grateful that she helped to defeat the Others?”

“Lady Arya killed the Night King.”

“You wouldn't have had enough men if she hadn't come with her dragons and armies.”

She nodded lightly, and it was true, but was beside the point. “They say that His Grace- I mean Lord Snow had told the lords that he had been given a choice between his crown and the North. Does that mean that she would've let us die if he would've chosen differently?”

Don’t smile, she had commanded herself, as Lord Varys murmured to himself, “He did say that.” It's a mystery how no one had picked up on that, not truly anyway, when Jon had told his people fairly plain why he had sworn himself and the North to her cause, pretty much the minute after he returned. And she hadn't even intervened, so how could anyone have doubts about what kind of queen she is?!

Lord Varys had taken a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded like before, clear and unwavering. “You've said, that Lady Stark had been angry with him, is there any animosity between them still?”

It took everything in her power to suppress the smirk threatening to spoil the contemplative look she was sporting, as he seemed to have moved on from Daenerys, and already inquired about Jon's support within House Stark. Obviously, with Bran neither interested nor necessarily well-equipped to rule, what with him spending his days in the past, Sansa's the strongest contender for the northern throne besides Jon. She's not only the eldest trueborn child of Ned Stark, she's already proven that she rules smart and fair while Jon was away. It's easy to falsely assume that Sansa would strive to be queen herself, the maid knew and felt the familiar pang of guilt in her stomach. But that only happened because she hadn't known Littlefinger then, and because she kind of ignored all her sister's tedious whining of ‘I wish Jon was here.’ Really, what kind of usurper would do that? “They bicker sometimes, like siblings do. My own are at each other's throats all the time, but I know they still love each other. Of course,” she had added snickering, “we don't argue about thrones and such.”

“But doesn't she or his other siblings find it curious that he could ride a dragon?”

He already knew, at least suspected the truth, she had reckoned, as she shrugged before slobbering over her brave king again. “Why should they? He cheated death, surely riding a dragon isn't all that remarkable then, is it?”

Lord Varys had chuckled a little, likely at her naive unawareness. “I have a task for you, and it's very important,” he began, playing with some coins in his pocket, the sound surely enticing for those who don't have many. So, she nodded eagerly. “Tell people that you've heard that only those with Targaryen blood can ride dragons, and ask them who they think Lord Snow's mother was." 

The maid had stared at him open-mouthed. “I don't understand.”

“Have you ever heard tales of dragonriders who weren't descendants of House Targaryen?” 

“No, but that doesn't mean much. I haven't heard many tales.”

“It's unheard of that anyone without at least a drop of Targaryen blood has ever ridden a dragon in Westeros. So, from whom has Jon Snow gotten his?” He had smiled at the dumbfounded maid, as he took her hand into his and placed a few shiny coins into it. “Go now, be a busy little bee and listen carefully. We'll meet here after the midday meal.”

A few minutes after that, the maid finally reaches the thankfully empty chamber, and closes the door behind her. After removing the face, Arya takes a deep breath, puts it back into the satchel and safely hides it again. She still feels ashamed how she had left it once for Sansa to find, and how she had savoured her sister's terrified face. Swallowing the guilt, she quickly checks her appearance in the mirror, checks if all hidden weapons are where they're supposed to be, before hurrying out to meet with her siblings and Daenerys. She hopes the meeting won't take too long, she has an important date after lunch to be at. Yet, she doesn't come far when she runs into a tall but wobbly wall. “What the-"

“Arya!” Gendry calls out, and she feels his strong, and weirdly hot, hands gripping her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

She needs a moment to collect herself, but then shakes her head. “Of course not,” she states. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

She's sure there's a reason, but she just can't remember. Maybe she did bump her head harder than she thought, his chest is pretty firm after all. 

“You sure you're alright?” He asks again, voice dripping with concern, while his hands softly – Softly?! – stroke her arms, and it's kind of soothing. 

Arya doesn't like it, she doesn't need soothing. She already knows all there is to know. Everything is never easy, everything is always unfair, and life overall just sucks. She stopped crying about it years ago, she doesn't need anybody, least of all Lord Baratheon to soothe her. “I'm fine. So, why did you come to see me?”

“I was wondering if you've time, just to talk?”

She snorts. “Just? What else did you think we could do, My Lord?”

His eyes are instantly narrowing, glaring darkly down at her, and she feels a sting in her stomach. Well, she skipped breakfast. “Nothing, Lady Arya. You've made that very clear, even for a sorry fool like me.”

It's confusing. She's angry, but also something else. Sad? She wants to leave him standing here, but at the same time- Seven hells, she thinks, as she remembers the meeting. Gods damn, the idiot is always making things just so very... She doesn't even know what, except that she doesn't like it. 

“I have to go,” she murmurs – Why? What happened with her voice? – and only then realises that her hands are still clinging to his jerkin. She needs rest, that's what this is, she's just really exhausted. She saved the fucking world, and didn't even get one day to sleep in! “I have to go.”

Gendry lets go off her and takes a step backwards, and even though he's so much taller and so much stronger, she thinks of a cute little puppy. A sad puppy, though, and the stinging in her belly gets mixed with a strange, not necessarily unpleasant, but unwelcomed tingling. “I have to go,” she repeats, because apparently that's all she's able to say now. What the-

“Go then,” he says, almost a whisper, and it reminds her of other things he had whispered into her ear when- No. No, no, no.

With way too much effort she finally walks past him, and only with the space between them growing she feels her head and eyes clearing, like after walking through thick fog. She's running now, and very displeased with herself. They have an enemy right under their roof, dragons roam over their heads, and she's late because of stupid Lord Baratheon, who wants her to live a dull life in fucking Storm's End as his proper lady wife! Indeed, he is a sorry fool, she thinks as she enters the chamber.

As expected, she's the last to arrive and mutters an apology when she takes the free seat next to Sansa. Jon sits on her sister's other side, quiet and stoic. For someone who used to wear his heart on his sleeve, he has perfected the blank expression almost as well as Sansa. Or perhaps, she just can't read him anymore as she used to, and she doesn't like that either.

On the opponent's side sits Her Grace, flanked by Grey Worm, for security probably, and, a bit surprising, Tyrion Lannister. Her closest advisor looks wary, tense, and his hands tremble lightly. Arya assumes that Daenerys has told him the truth of Jon's parentage, otherwise he wouldn't be here. He's likely worrying that they will threaten to move against her by making Jon's claim public if she doesn't grant the North its independence. Which is exactly what they plan to do, she thinks smirking, only to wonder the next second if his nervousness has other reasons. She can't quite grasp it, but she feels it in her bones that there's more to it, that they've missed something in all their planning and scheming. Arya glances at Sansa, wondering if she has noticed it as well, but her sister just glares at the woman in front of her. Let's hope she'll keep a level head for a change, she muses, predicting that Daenerys certainly won't make it easy for her sister.

“So, let's begin,” the dragon queen finally says, with a somewhat smug smile and eyes almost sparkling with excitement, which only adds to Arya's perturbation. Something's going on, she knows it, and it's unlikely in their favour. “I am all ears, Lady Stark. Tell me how we can live in peace and both get what we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. Please let me know what you think, and I would love to hear your predictions or ideas what might happen next. Comments make my day! But also a big thank you to everyone who left kudos or a bookmark. Your support keeps me motivated writing this story, truly! Stay healthy! 💖


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Just a heads up for this chapter: I don't know much about Westerosi or medieval inheritance laws, and I am fairly sure I oversaw something, or got it absolutely wrong, but I hope it still makes sense - and not just in my head.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy!

The air is thick with deep suspicion and mutual animosity, and alertness is in every movement, in every flash of each eyes. While Grey Worm's stoic face gives not much away, Tyrion obviously rather wants to be anywhere else but here, probably where wine is served aplenty and not just plain water, Sansa muses. Daenerys must have shared the truth about Jon with him, otherwise he wouldn't be here, she reckons a bit surprised.

It can't fluster Sansa, since she spent the whole night preparing. After leaving Jon’s chamber, her body had been buzzing with anticipation, making it impossible to think of going back to bed, and instead she used the remaining hours contemplating various outcomes and their consequences. Alas, time had been scarce and the possibilities infinite, and Sansa had braced herself to expect the unexpected. Regardless of what will happen, they can't lose control again, can't get distracted from their goal, can't allow their opponent to see any signs of weakness, unease, or confusion.

“No need to keep up the suspense,” Daenerys quips, and Sansa wants to strangle her, but keeps her face an immaculate mask. While she believes that the odds are in their favour, she knows better than to bank on it. The arrogant smugness of the other tells her that she's convinced of the same, and only one of them can be right.

Taking a deep breath, she nods tersely towards Tyrion, “I assume everyone is informed about the changed circumstances?”

He confirms it with a weak smile, and jests, “Aegon, huh? Who would've guessed?”

Jon huffs affronted and Sansa stops herself from rolling her eyes. They've spoken about the significance of appearances and control, of the necessity to give no impression of deceit, especially after what happened yesterday at the council meeting, and they all have solemnly sworn to be the epitome of good manners, honesty and calmness. So, he better stops behaving as if that name is an insult, or their plan will fail very quickly.

“Good,” she says, turning her attention back to Daenerys. “It's simple, really. The North's oath of subjection has been made under false assumptions, and therefore-”

“Jon bent the knee for Her Grace's help against the Night King,” Tyrion interjects indignantly. “She fulfilled her part, and now you want to desist from doing yours because of a formality?”

How easy, Sansa thinks. “Ned Stark's son was our king.” Her voice is firm and detached, contrasting her churning stomach. They have spoken about this, too, and Jon knows what's coming next. But still, she doesn't dare to look at him, lest she risks crumbling under his pained gaze and takes it all back. “The North is ruled by House Stark, and no Stark has bent the knee, nor has made other promises. As it stands, we have not broken any oath.” Taken aback, Tyrion turns to his queen, but she continues unbothered. “He didn't have the right to speak for House Stark then, but he has every right to speak for House Targaryen now,” Sansa concludes and waits for the quiet hostility to turn loud.

It doesn't. While Grey Worm seems entirely impartial, and Tyrion stares at them as if they lost their minds, Daenerys refrains from shouting threats to burn all and everyone, and Sansa wonders why. Something strange is going on, and she doesn't have a clue what that might be. Shit.

“I fail to see,” Daenerys retorts at last, voice strained, “how this is helpful for a peaceful coexistence between our Houses.” 

“It's important why it is not just a formality, as your Hand alleges, not according to the laws of inheritance. My father was the Lord of Winterfell, not Jon's mother. And after he died his eldest son Robb inherited the title, whom the lords have chosen to be their king. But because my brother left no heir, the next eligible offspring of Ned Stark is Bran,” she explains matter-of-factly, conveniently skipping the part where Bran had declined to be lord of anything. “At the same time, your father's heir has a living child, which means that-”

“Get to the point,” Daenerys demands, still astonishingly collected, except of the visible thrum of anger flashing through her eyes as they focus on Jon.

“Of course. The point is that lineage matters, and we were under the impression that you would appreciate that. Or isn't it true that, after his arrival on Dragonstone, you have asked Jon to bend the knee to you based on your claim as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne as your father's last living child? Another statement that was made under false assumptions, now that we know the truth.” Daenerys’ face hardens and her chest starts heaving visibly, her fake calm likely about to shatter at last. “The point is, that we would gladly, but only, bow to the rightful heir of House Targaryen, and surely most, if not all, Houses will follow our example,” she declares, and lets her words sink for a few breaths before raising her palms in what is intended to be a calming gesture. “On the other hand, an independent North doesn't care how a southern House handles its own affairs. If the crown prince wants to abdicate in favour of his aunt, well, that is not our concern.”

The other woman regards her intently, her glare barely hiding the doubt and loathing. “How can I be sure that he won't make a claim someday? I've never seen anyone so uncomfortable with temperatures above the freezing point,” she mocks Jon without sparing him a glance. “But he might be tempted to endure the sun and warmth for the throne.”

It's pathetic how people like her, like Littlefinger and Cersei, just can't imagine that not everyone is as obsessed with power as they. How can a throne and a crown be a substitute for a home and a family?

“You have our word that Jon has no ambitions to the Iron Throne.” Which isn't even a lie, but he will claim it anyway if duty commands it. Daenerys chortles as if Sansa made a poor jest.

“No throne could ever be as tempting as my home. I've already spent too much time away, I won't ever leave the North,” Jon confirms, and bestows Arya and her with a soft loving smile flickering at the edge of his lips. Sansa's heart jumps with joy and a warm, fuzzy tingling grows in her belly. Sometimes she wonders if it isn't a bit peculiar that she's either angered or happy, but never indifferent to whatever Jon does or says?

“You say that now,” Tyrion remarks, reminding Sansa that this isn't an opportune moment to delve into the strange feelings Jon seems to evoke. “But you're young and in ten years or so, you might change your mind.” 

“Who knows what'll be in ten, five or even one year,” Arya says, unperturbed. “Winter is here, and who knows for how long. But if we live, what guarantee do we have that you won't invade the North someday?”

“No one can see the future, and words are wind,” Daenerys mumbles with a shrug, and then leans back in her chair. “Admittedly, my first reaction was to bury the truth again, but when I realised that one of my children has chosen,” she pauses before continuing with a grin, “Aegon to be his, I knew then that he is the answer to my prayers.”

Sansa frowns in confusion, which Daenerys acknowledges with a raised brow. They were sure that Daenerys would fear nothing more than the secret getting spread, but it's not? “You want to make his true name known?” She asks, proud of how aloof she sounds.

“It won't stay a secret anyway. Too many people know of it by now, and many more are already asking questions,” Tyrion chimes in, obviously aware of where this is going, unlike Sansa.

“I believed to be alone, the last Targaryen, and it had saddened me for so long,” Daenerys says, oh so anguished by the memory. “As Aegon has surely told you, a witch used dark magic on me and I was sure that my family name will perish with me.” She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again the pretend sorrow is replaced by pretend joy. “How can I not rejoice when the gods have blessed me so?” She asks, her eyes gleaming with dark glee.

Dread builds inside Sansa, now knowing where this is going. And while they had discussed marriages, they hadn't contemplated that Daenerys could force Jon to marry someone of her choosing to ensure the survival of her family name. Instead they've only spoken about the North and that a marriage alliance may be crucial to appease their lords. She knows it's unfair, after everything he has done and sacrificed for them, he shouldn't ever have to prove his loyalty. Alas, their people are a fickle bunch, and for them he bent the knee to a Targaryen queen, whom he also bedded, as everyone surely knows by now, and when they find out his true name... Well, in another life she'd be the first to scream Targaryen conspiracy.

Quickly assessing the situation, Sansa knows that they have to tread carefully now, they can't lose sight of their goal for this meeting. All that matters is that the North stays independent and almost more important, that she and her armies leave Winterfell as soon as possible. It'd be unwise to outright reject any proposal Daenerys will make, but they may be able to manipulate her into agreeing what they've already considered themselves. Besides, a royal Targaryen wedding deserves to be a meticulously planned grand show, doesn't it? So, she reckons – the dread instantly subsiding – Jon won't marry any time soon, regardless of what they'll agree upon. Just to think of some random lady gallivanting around her home, hanging on Jon's strong arm-

“You gave me your word, but what are words worth in comparison to deeds? Not much, I dare say. Therefore, to ensure lasting peace, I propose a marriage alliance,” Daenerys declares with a bright smile.

“Of course,” Sansa replies unmoved. “We can arrange a proper match for Jon. Lord Manderly has unwed-"

“How does a union between Jon- I mean Aegon and some lesser lord’s daughter help to solidify an alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark?” Tyrion asks, wincing at his own words and unable to meet her eyes.

It takes them a moment to grasp the implications, but when they do, Arya huffs aghast, and somewhere in the back of her whirling head, Sansa wonders how she could not have seen this coming. Then again, her sister said that it changes nothing, that Jon is still their brother, and so she hadn't dared to think otherwise. Dared? Regardless, she should've thought of this, and then she may have had a fitting counter proposal. Now, she has nothing. 

In the corner of her eye she sees Jon squirming in his seat, and her gaze flickers to him when he gnarls a warning, “Daenerys.”

Eyes sharply narrowed, jaw tightly clenched, a vein throbbing dangerously over his eye, his face is a picture perfect of pain and outrage, and an unease overtakes Sansa at the realisation that hers is not, but that it should be. 

And suddenly she understands the confusing feelings. The strange tingling sensations, the little prickles of excitement in her belly, the almost bewildered thrill whenever they touch, the bickering ache when it's over, the hurt and fury when she saw him with Daenerys, all of those and more she stubbornly refused to give any relevance to. It was only nerves, nothing more, it was only because she missed him so, because she worried so, because he made stupid decisions, because this or that. A thousand reasons, all true and yet false. Sansa's heart pounds against her ribs and suffocating panic rises with the terror of this shameful truth, and it takes all of her self-control to fight the urge to escape. Don't let them see, she commands herself, don't let anyone ever see. Deny, deny, deny, until the last breath leaves her.

She averts her eyes from Jon to her sister, who stares daggers at Daenerys, while fumbling with the sleeve of her tunic. She has a small blade hidden there, Sansa knows, and Grey Worm seems to suspect it, eying Arya like a hawk. Daenerys, though, enjoys herself immensely and Sansa wants to find out how fast Ghost could rip her to shreds. Someday, she muses and takes a deep breath before stating astonishingly steady, “We grew up as siblings. It's not the Northern way."

“It’s the Targaryen way,” Daenerys counters, and Jon jumps up with such force the chair falls over.

Bracing his fists on the table, he bends forwards, as if in preparation to attack, and hisses, “You're as mad as your father if you think we would accept this.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrow sharply as she leans closer as well, but keeps seated. “You talk of a peaceful coexistence in which we all get what we want, but all you do is take from me,” she spits. “Take my armies to fight your war, take the crown that's mine, take my dragon I've given life to. You're a deceitful, backstabbing liar, but I am still willing to be allies despite your betrayals. These are my conditions, and they aren't negotiable. You, dear nephew, will openly forfeit any claim to the Iron Throne in exchange for the North's independence. Your men will join mine in the war against Cersei in return of my help against the Others. And to solidify our alliance we will join our Houses.”

“I won't ever-"

“You want to be a Targaryen?” Daenerys calls out, her self-restraint finally shattering, voice rising with every word. “Be one then! You have the name, the dragon, all that's missing is a sister-wife! Of course, as all with you, it's tainted and they aren't truly your sisters, but it's as good as it gets. Take your pick, but at the end of the day you will have chosen. I told you, I leave this frozen wasteland today and it's up to you if Winterfell is still standing when I do.”

He chuckles disbelieving and chokes out. “I have Rhaegal now. I will use him against you.”

She snorts unimpressed. “You have Rhaegal for a few days, but I have Drogon for years, and he's bigger and stronger than his brother. Is that a risk you're willing to take? Besides, it's not about my children, it's about men, and you don't have enough to fight mine. We're here as guests now, but this can easily be changed to an invasion, and they will lay waste to everything you hold dear.”

Jon stares at her hard, stiff, and silent, the conflict within him so apparent, Sansa watches almost mesmerised as rage wins and he starts to shout curses at Daenerys.

Until Arya jabs her with an elbow, whispering harshly, “Do something!” 

Scolding herself for her lack of focus, she grabs Jon's arm. “Please, let's discuss this,” she urges. To no avail, but movements under the table remind her of the strong possibility that Daenerys could loose a leg or more within a blink of the eye. Turns out, she doesn't truly want to find out how fast Ghost can rip her apart. Gods damn, this is exactly what she wanted to avoid, but it doesn't seem that it can as long as Jon and Daenerys are in the same place. “Jon! Sit down or leave!”

Swinging around, he stares down at her, “What?!”

Sansa sighs, “You're either reasonable, or you need to leave. I do not want to take the risk of you two burning down my home.” She meets his eyes, unblinking. He looks as if she slapped him, but what else is she supposed to do when they are walking on the thinnest ice? 

He scoffs incredulously and grabs his cloak. “You better think of something else to solidify this alliance, because I won't marry my sister!”

“I'm not your sister,” she replies, voice as cold as her words are cruel. “And neither is Arya. And by the looks of it, you better come to grips with it quickly.”

Watching him kicking the chair on the ground out of his way and stomping towards the door, her heart sinks. They shouldn't fight amongst themselves, she thinks sadly as she turns back to face Daenerys, readying herself to ease the situation somehow. But then Jon strides back and halts right behind her, and instantly her breath is taken away by the scent and heat emanating off him. He curls his hands along the backrest of her chair and her whole body stiffens, fully aware of his fingers grazing her shoulders. It's so distracting, she misses the chance to stop him from speaking, and when he does, a chill races through her like an exciting shudder at the roughness of his deep voice.

“I am a deceitful, backstabbing liar because you made me one. I was your prisoner, you never listened to reason, only ever demanded submission and worship. So that's what I gave you to save my family, my home, my people. Would you do the same? No, and someday your loyal followers will realise that all you have to offer is fear and threats of fire. I know death, it doesn't scare me, and if I die again today, I might die a bad man, but at least free of you.” 

And with that he turns around, calls for Ghost to follow, and slams the door shut behind them. 

Rendered speechless, Daenerys’ eyes blink wildly, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she looks as mad as Jon accused her to be. A hysterical laugh builds inside Sansa, and she bites her lip hard. As much as she understands why he needed to say this, why he needed Daenerys to know the truth, all he has achieved is that they have no other choice but to agree to her marriage proposal. Now knowing that nothing will make Jon as miserable than that, his aunt won't let the opportunity pass to punish him for his insolence and disrespect.

“I am only ever caring about the people, and it's my greatest wish to make Westeros better, to let it flourish in wealth and peace again, as it has for hundreds of years since my forefathers came here,” Daenerys says, and Sansa isn't quite sure if it's meant to convince her and Arya, or if she only speaks to herself. “It's my calling to fulfil the gods wishes and deliver Westeros from its pain, why else would they've gifted me with another Targaryen whose offspring will ensure our everlasting rule? It will be sceptics and deniers who will realise someday that I am Westeros’ salvation.” She pauses, her eyes find Sansa's again, and a horrible smile appears on her face. “You were right, Lady Stark. There is a way we all get what we want. I get the South, my nephew the North, and you, well, you get your sneaking desire fulfilled.” 

Sucking in a breath, Sansa's heart makes a painful halt as her gut coils tight. How can she know? Is it that obvious? Does Jon know? Arya? Bran? Does Jon know?!

“What rubbish is that now?” Arya mutters, but all Sansa feels is Daenerys scrutinising gaze piercing into her soul. Yet, she keeps her face undaunted, like a statue, never looking away. Deny, deny, deny. Whatever she believes to know, she can't prove it. So, stay calm, stay in control. It isn't true, it's a lie, just a cheap attempt to cause discord between them. She won't grant such a ridiculousness a response, only showing her amused bewilderment with a light snort.

Shaking her head with a chortle, Daenerys leans forward, and whispers conspiratorially, “If there's anything to learn of this, it's that all secrets get out eventually, no matter how deep they're buried. You, Sansa, need to dig deeper.”

“Damn it, cut the riddles,” Arya demands, exasperated. "Jon's right, we won't ever agree to this sick-"

“Stop it,” Sansa interrupts, ignoring her sister's disbelieving glare. It takes all her willpower to keep the mask in place, to ignore the nausea in her stomach at the truth of Daenerys words. “I haven't agreed,” she grits out. “After the last tumultuous years, the Northerners won't accept any other than a Stark ruling them.”

Tyrion clears his throat, looking as pitying at her as he used to back in Kings Landing, and Sansa loathes it and his sympathetic voice. “It's a good match, despite the unique circumstances. It would help to bring peace to Westeros that it so desperately needs. Please,” he implores as he throws a quick, but fearful, glance at his queen. He's afraid of her, she realises, and despises him even more for that. “Jon would be kind to you, and in time you might even-"

Arya grunts, and then seethes, “Shut up!”

“Yes,” Daenerys agrees impatient. “So, Lady Stark. Are we going to be family?”

Sansa wants to shout at Tyrion that it's all his fault. If he hadn't helped her coming to Westeros, if he hadn't written the ‘invitation’ to Dragonstone that lured Jon into her trap, if he hadn't- What if, what if, she mocks herself, and then nods. 

Arya curses, Tyrion releases a relieved breath, and Grey Worm looks a hint confused, while Daenerys smiles pleased. “I have no doubt that you'll convince Aegon and your lords,” she says, standing up. “I look forward to the ceremony tonight before I leave, and even more to welcome a new Targaryen in about a year.”

In a about a year you'll be dead, Sansa vows to herself, nodding in acknowledgement that she understood the threat, and watches how Daenerys, obnoxiously good-humoured, and her entourage stride out. As soon as they're alone, she slumps down in her chair, leans her head against the backrest, and closes her tired eyes. It didn't exactly go as they thought it would, but nonetheless, they achieved what they wanted. The North is free and she and her armies leave soon.

“How could you agree to that?!” Arya exclaims, aggravation staining her voice. “Jon's our brother! And don't even think to drag me into this! I rather fight the fucking Others again!"

Sansa feels a deep frown marring her features, and with an exhausted sigh she turns to her sister. “It'll be a sham marriage, nothing more,” she says as if it's most obvious, and while it's true, she still feels a liar. “It will protect us, at least for the time being. And now we know how much time we have. If there aren't news of an heir within a year, the deal is off. That's quite helpful for planning our next steps.” 

Arya grumbles deprecatingly, but after a few moments contemplating it, she relents. “Alright then. You can easily annul the marriage when all is done, and we can pretend it never happened. Which is probably the only argument to convince Jon to go through with it, anyway.”

Arya's right, Sansa knows, busily ignoring the sting of rejection by reflecting about the past hour. It occurs to her that, unknowingly, Daenerys did them a splendid favour. “That,” she replies with a smirk, “and the name.”

“The name?”

“Bran may be the legitimate heir, but not only has he already disclaimed his inheritance, he's also unable to have children, I think. Who will continue our name after we perish? Who will save House Stark from extinction?”

Pondering over it briefly, Arya then groans, “You and, when all seven hells freeze over, me.”

“But only if there's no better male alternative. And who might that be?” She nods when Arya breaks out in a grin. “And that makes Jon not only the heir to House Targaryen but also to House Stark.”

“It's unfair, though. Winterfell should be yours."

“I know, and it is as long as no man with a legitimate claim contests me and wins the support of the lords. But with this marriage we're uniting our claims, so there won't be any conflict. And here's the fun part. She had been very clear about her non-negotiable conditions, and as Aegon Targaryen he needs to openly forfeit his claim to the Iron Throne, but that doesn't mean that he has to forfeit his claim to Winterfell, as well. And because it's quite common for men to take their mother's family name when they come into their inheritance, he'll be Jon Stark even after the annulment.”

Arya snorts amused, “Bloody brilliant. But you do know that she's going to scream fire and blood, right?”

Sansa chortles, “She'll lose her mind over it, I'm sure, whatever's left of it.” Taking a deep sobering breath, she professes, “At the end of the day, though, it changes nothing. As much as it will anger her, she still needs him. But as soon as Jon sired an heir, no matter the name, she will come to steal the babe for herself, and if he doesn't, she'll come anyway. At any rate, she'll make sure that House Stark ceases to exist.”

“It will be a busy year then,” Arya says darkly, getting up. “Let's find the corner Jon's sulking and inform him of the happy news.”

As they walk the grounds of Winterfell, looking for Jon at what Arya calls his usual brooding spots, her sister gives details about what findings she gathered at her earlier meeting with Lord Varys.

“Yes, that’s promising,” Sansa says. “Seems as if your impolite tardiness was worth it, at least.”

Arya sighs, somewhat annoyed. “That wasn't why I was late.” 

“Why then?”

Another sigh, almost ailing, and Sansa's interest is piqued. It takes a short while, but then her sister decides to elaborate, and astounded she learns about her tryst with Gendry. So that's why Arya had spent so much time in the smithy, who knew? Her sister insists that it was a onetime event, an act of sheer curiosity before it was too late what with the Others coming for them. And yes, she likes him, but that's certainly no reason to propose marriage and to make things awkward. It's cute, Sansa thinks, as her sister reiterates, what must be the millionth time, that she won't ever be a stupid lady, but then admits that even so, she kind of doesn't want Gendry to leave to his fancy castle and marry someone else.

“It's just so very confusing!” She calls out. “He complicates everything!”

“Well, what isn't confusing and complicated lately?” Sansa says understanding. “But if there's a chance that you could be happy with him, if that's something you want, then perhaps you should talk with him. If he truly expects you to be something you aren't, then he's an idiot, but maybe it's just some sort of misunderstanding about expectations.”

Arya hums, and then shrugs, “Maybe.”

They continue their search in silence for a few minutes before Arya chuckles, “Honestly, how insane is Daenerys? That horseshit about your sneaking desire and that you have to dig deeper to hide it, or something? She made it sound as if you're secretly in love with Jon.” The snicker grows into a belly laugh. “I can't wait to tell him. It's so hilarious!”

Mortified, Sansa forces a little snicker. “Aye, so funny,” she mumbles, and then stops in her tracks. “You know, there's a lot that needs to be done now, and I should go back to my chamber and prepare the speech for the lords. When you find him, just send Jon to me, alright? And don't be late for your meeting with Varys.”

“Alright, and I won't,” Arya consents cheerfully, and with a frozen smile plastered on her face, Sansa turns around and hurries away. Deny, deny, deny.


	9. Jon

What an idiot he is, Jon thinks for the umpteenth time in the last hour or so. The least he should've done after Sansa expelled him from the meeting was to seek solitude to muse about his many failings as a king, a brother, and a man. But no, he took on the first distraction that came along, grateful to avoid delving into the dark depths of his soul and the secrets he kept buried there, until Daenerys saw fit to poke holes into their graves. Damn her. Anyway, which is how he ended up in the wildling camp, and now sits around a fire with Davos, Gendry and Tormund, well on the way to be sloshed before lunch. He should've denied the offered goat’s milk when his friend said he looks like he needs it, but he did need it, urgently.

Tormund is animatedly recounting how they provoked the brawl between the Northerners and Daenerys’ men yesterday. A masterpiece if there ever was one, he says, no one even noticed them to be involved. Davos and Gendry laugh heartily, and Jon can't help but to chuckle either as he runs his hand over Ghost's back, who sits by his side with his head resting in his lap. 

It feels so familiar how the fur glides through his fingers, he thinks, while touching Rhaegal feels so very foreign. He still can't quite grasp that he has a dragon now, but it isn't as encumbering as it seemed yesterday. He looked for him this morning before the meeting and found him not far away from Winterfell’s walls, laying alone in the snow. The connection with the dragon feels also different. There was some sort of contentment buzzing off the beast, especially when Jon stroked his nose, that felt strangely infectious. He can't imagine that it will ever be like with Ghost, but he actually looks forward to get to know Rhaegal better. On the other hand, Ghost isn't exactly thrilled with the new addition. Even though the introduction went quite well – neither tried to attack or eat the other –, he acts a bit peeved ever since.

“You Southerners really aren't that clever either,” Tormund quips in conclusion, and starts to share a new story, which Jon recognises immediately. It's one of his more outlandish ones, and Davos and Gendry nod and laugh in all the right places. Yet, Jon notices that every so often, the latter is throwing anxious looks at his direwolf.

“He won't hurt you,” Jon says when Tormund has finished his tale, but it doesn't seem to convince Gendry, at all. Fondling Ghost under the chin, he adds reassuringly, “He's very well-behaved, and won't attack anyone just so. Not someone I like anyway.”

If anything, Gendry seems more wary now, which doesn't go unnoticed. 

“You look like you ate a cake that wasn't meant for you,” Tormund laughs. “Did you steal Jon's sweets?”

“No!” Gendry calls out. Horrified? “Why would you say that?!”

Straightening up, Jon regards him very closely. “Why then are you afraid?”

Gendry’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth but says nothing. Jon doesn't know of any cake that would belong to him, doesn't own anything sweet that could be stolen, which makes the man's behaviour all the more suspicious. Gendry snaps his mouth shut before turning around to Davos.

“Whatever it is, it surely can't be worth Ghost's wrath,” Davos encourages with an amused chuckle. “Just spit it out!”

“Aye, spit it out,” Jon commands.

“I didn't start anything! She did, and- and- but I asked her-”

“Who started what?” Jon interrupts his stuttering.

“Arya,” he mutters, but doesn't elaborate the what, which is for the best. If his face, as red as a ripe apple, is any hint, Jon knows the what and that's certainly not something he needs to hear about. 

Tormund bellows “You stole yourself a fine one!”, and Davos, though smirking, mutters something about “Seven hells, you bloody fool,” but all Jon sees in his mind are images of his precious little sister. How she had followed his every step from the moment she could walk, how she had clung on his leg and begged him to save her from boring lessons, and how they've always had the most fun together. 

Jon gnarls, Ghost jumps up, and so does Gendry. “Please! I love her!” He calls out, deservedly panicky, and stumbles backwards, almost tripping over the log. “I proposed! But she-"

“And why do I only learn of this now? I haven't given my permission to-,” he halts when he sees Gendry's confusion. “Don't you know anything about proper etiquette?”

“I'm a bastard from Flea Bottom! I know shit about etiquette and whatever it is noble people think proper!” Gendry exclaims exasperated. “Is it proper for a lady to come to a man and- uhm, things happen, and then she stomps on his heart as if it's nothing?!”

Davos and Tormund make sympathetic noises, while Jon snorts miffed. Gendry's lucky that he's too buzzed to get up and beat some propriety into him. But he grabs Ghost anyway and pulls him back. “Sit,” he murmurs, and his direwolf immediately obeys.

Gendry takes that as a sign that it's safe to sit back down again, and does so with a miserable sigh. Hanging his head, he whines, “I wanted to do the proper thing and asked her to marry me, but she refused. It isn't her, she said, as if being a lord is for me.” 

“You could've declined the title,” Jon discerns.

Gendry looks up, brows furrowed. “I'm rather a lord than dragon fodder,” he snaps. “Or did I misunderstand my options?”

When Daenerys called out Gendry at the feast, Jon had been sure that she would burn him for being the usurper’s offspring, for having a claim that contests hers. Considering the tension in the room, he hadn't been the only one. Who had told her the truth? Likely Varys or Tyrion. Either way, Gendry had as little choice as anyone else in her clutches. Jon shakes his head. “You didn't.”

Gendry nods tersely, before continuing to share his misery. “I never should've left her back then for the Brotherhood. Not that it would've changed anything, they still would've sold me to the witch, but at least she wouldn't think that I didn't chose her.” He groans. “I am a bloody fool. She begged me to come with her, said that she could be my family, but I said, ‘You wouldn't be my family. You'd be my lady’, as if that would've been so horrible. And now I can't even get her to talk to me.”

Immediately, Davos and Tormund start giving Gendry helpful advises how to handle the womenfolk, but Jon doesn't listen anymore. He's a bloody fool, too, he knows and gulps down the spirit. It burns in his throat and the taste is horrible, but he doesn't deserve better. 

He has lived in blessed ignorance for so long, the truth had hit him with the shock of an unexpected blow once he understood the implications of Daenerys' proposal. It felt as if he was being swept away by a storm gust, so of course, he had lost his mind in there. Jon can't fathom how Daenerys found out when he hadn't even been aware himself. It had been a subtle thing, easily to pretermit while it grew into something that shouldn't be. And now he's in so deep, he doesn't know if he can ever pull himself out of this shithole.

"Jon," Davos says. "Don't be angry. He's a good guy and obviously suffers enough already."

“I'm not angry,” he replies, but adds when he sees hope in Gendry's eyes, “I'm not pleased, but if you ever get her to speak with you again, you have my blessing.”

“Thank you,” the other says, clearly relieved.

Fondling Ghost behind his ear, Jon blurts out, “But if you don't treat her right, know that not only will you have to face Ghost, but also Rhaegal.”

Gendry gasps terrified, and Jon feels guilty. He always wondered what it would take to threaten someone with dragon fire. Now he knows. What a shit day this is.

But before he can take it back, Davos notes, "Ah, so he is indeed yours now. How did Her Grace take that?"

Jon shrugs, as if it's obvious that Her Grace didn't take it well, at all.

“What does he mean by that?” Tormund asks. “Your sisters weren't very specific with what they've told me yesterday. So, what is going on and should I be worried for my people?”

The truth will be known soon enough anyway, Jon reckons and so he tells them.

“What an unexpected turn of events,” Davos mumbles and takes a huge gulp of the goat's milk he had so far politely declined.

“Aegon Targaryen,” Tormund repeats, tilting his head to the side and sizing him up. Shaking his head, he declares, “No, that doesn't sound right.”

“It sounds stupid,” Jon agrees, and all of them chuckle.

“No wonder you Southerners are so fucked up. It's a mystery how you came about to call us wildlings,” Tormund wonders, and Jon can't deny that he has a point. “You can always come with us and live a hard, but free life, far away from all this shit. You have the true North in you, no matter your name.”

It's tempting, very much so, to just pack up and leave. “I wish I could go with you,” Jon mumbles. 

But he can't take the easy way out, and he doesn't truly want to. Sansa said last night that they have to watch over Bran and Arya, and she's right. The way Arya killed House Frey chills him. They deserved it, undoubtedly, but does she wish for anything else in life besides vengeance? Shouldn't it worry him that she talks about killing people without a hint of hesitation? Maybe she doesn't love Gendry back, maybe she does but doesn't want to marry like she always said, or maybe she just doesn't know yet. But being driven solely by hate, is no way to any happiness. And Bran needs their care and protection more than anyone. It's already his fault that he had to leave his home again with two strangers, with a Lannister no less. He won't abandon him ever again, regardless if the boy they once knew is truly gone, replaced by the Three-Eyed Raven. But maybe he's still there somewhere and surely being surrounded by his family can only be helpful. 

“But this is my home,” he declares, and brings the drinking horn to his mouth. Besides, who will watch over Sansa if not him?

Just as he's about to swallow, a familiar voice calls out, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”, and Jon splutters the drink over himself. Turning around, Arya stands behind him, glaring down sternly. “I was starting to worry that you drowned yourself in the pool or something, but here you are, having fun with your friends and- Are you drunk?!” A low huff of disbelieving laughter leaves her lips. “If Sansa sees you like this, she's going to bloody lose it.” 

A smile is twitching at his lips, he can already picture it. Gloriously furious, harsh breathing, eyes glittering darkly at him, Sansa losing it is truly a sight to behold, he thinks and a thrill of anticipation runs through him, which wakes him up rudely from this uncalled-for daydreaming. Luckily, Arya's also distracted. Following her gaze, his eyes fall on Gendry, unsurprisingly.  
  
“Fine, let's talk,” Arya sighs, and rolls her eyes when Gendry's face lights up as bright as a candle in the dark, but she can't hide the small smile around her lips, too. “But first I have to speak with Jon.”

Before he can protest that he is perfectly capable to stand and walk by himself, she has grabbed him by the cloak, pulled him up and dragged him away from any prying ears.

Taking a deep breath, she starts, “There’s no easy way to tell you this, but she wasn't willing to part with her non-negotiable condition, and you and Sansa will marry this evening.” Before he can even begin to process the information, she goes on, “Let's face it, your declaration of undying hate really didn't help, so Sansa did what needed to be done, and you will accept it, alright?” Jon's vaguely aware that he nods. Dumbstruck, he listens to Arya explaining that whilst “it sounds like the worst nightmare, I know!”, it really is a perfect opportunity to secure the North's freedom, House Stark's power, and on top of it, to screw his mad aunt over. They just have to be smart about it.

He can't be smart about it, he knows that now. He should say something, but he can't, not without admitting why. He can't ever say anything to anyone, least of all Sansa, even though she deserves to know what she'll get herself into.

‘I'm not your sister, and neither is Arya. And by the looks of it, you better come to grips with it quickly,’ Sansa had said earlier. He can't though. He can't come to grips with him being a rotten bastard, or just an ordinary Targaryen, who lusts after one of his sisters. Perhaps it needs another Targaryen to know one, he ponders, and maybe that's why Daenerys knows. She told him to choose, but clearly, she knew all along that it'd be Sansa. How cruel to offer him the life he secretly wishes for and to turn it into a nightmare. He will live a life in hiding, obscuring the true nature of his corrupt heart while temptation will torment him day in, day out. She's in every way the embodiment of everything he ever wanted, and he can't ever have her, even as her husband.

“Are you listening?!” Arya pokes his shoulder, and when he shakes his head, she snorts incredulous, but repeats herself anyway. She laughs, as if she's telling the most hilarious joke, but Jon only stares at her open-mouthed. “Damn, Jon. Are you really too wasted to get why it's funny?” He assumes that he must be, otherwise what she'd said makes no sense whatsoever. “Well, Sansa's waiting for you in her chamber. Think about it, and then you two can have a good laugh while planning your big day.”

He won't ever think of anything else, Jon reckons a minute later on his way back to the keep. He wants to run, wants to see her face, wants to study it for signs that there's truth in what Arya has declared the greatest joke of all time. Alas, he must be drunker than he feels. He thinks he walks straight, but he must be swaying, why else would most people he passes look so strangely at him? He really shouldn't add to the sorry picture he surely already makes by falling over his own feet into the mud. It's easy to ignore the displeased looks, though, as used to them as he is. They've followed him his whole life, and not just since he came back as their disgraced King who knelt to the enemy. Everyone always wanted to take a glimpse at the bastard of Winterfell, the sole stain upon Ned Stark's honour.

Sneaking desire. Why would Daenerys say that to Sansa if her goal was to punish him? It's confusing, Jon almost changes direction to demand an answer from her. He won't, of course. Sansa's waiting, and, he guesses, Daenerys and he aren't on speaking terms anymore anyway. Besides, it's surely just another attempt to sow discord between them, albeit a strange one. At last standing in front of her chamber, Jon huffs at his own stupidity to even entertain the idea that she might return his feelings. As if he would ever be that lucky. Falling for his sister, who then miraculously turns out to be his cousin, who also loves him back? Life's a mean bitch and not a fairy tale, and he better keeps that in mind. Straightening up, he takes a few deep breaths and knocks.

Sansa sits at her desk, busily writing something and doesn’t look up when he and Ghost enter. While the latter pads to the hearth and makes himself comfortable there, Jon takes the chair across from her. A moment later she pauses her hand and sniffs as if scrutinising the smell, and then scrunches up her nose. Shit.

“You reek of goat's milk,” she scolds, without looking at him.

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” 

His answer is a deep, miserable sigh, which she replies with a disappointed huff, but still ignores him when she gets up and returns with a carafe of water. “Drink up,” she orders as she puts it on the table in front of him. “All of it.”

He does as told and watches her sitting back down and then gazing out of the window. Why isn't she looking at him? Why isn't she shouting at him for his outburst at the meeting? Or for turning up in this state? He truly gave her plenty reasons to be furious.

Sneaking desire, the thought comes unbidden, and so does the next. If there's a possibility that he's the secret that Sansa keeps buried, he'll dig it up, he vows as his eyes slowly follow the lines of her face and the curves of her body, gaze lingering here and there. The slight frown on her forehead indicates that she's tense, and the light rhythmic drumming with her finger on the armrest that she's nervous. He'd be nervous, too, panicked even, if anyone called him out on his sneaking desires, and he would certainly avoid the object of his affection out of fear to reveal himself. So, he concludes, he needs to be careful and patient, but above all, observing. Everyone slips sooner or later, and so will she.

Taking a deep breath, she turns her attention back to the paper in front of her. “Arya has told you everything?”

“Aye.”

“Are you,” she starts, now tapping with the quill on the desk. “Are you very mad at me?”

Straightening up, he leans forward. “Sansa,” he begins, searching her eyes, but she doesn't cave. “I messed up at the meeting. You should be mad with me.”

She shakes her head. “I understand why you said that,” she replies and then her lips quirk up in a small smile. “Not to mention that I couldn't keep it civil for even a minute since she's here.” 

Chuckling, he falls back into the chair. She should've been mad at him for giving up their independence, but when they arrived at Winterfell, she had given him a loving smile and a tight hug, but hadn't even managed to respond in kind to Daenerys’ compliments. Jon suppresses a snort, recalling the lengthy discourse she had given them just this morning about the importance of appearances and political savvy.

“Now, we just have to convince our people that this is the best for the North.”

“Sounds easy,” he quips and she snickers, but still stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes. What would he see in hers that she doesn't want him to see? Could it be that obvious, he wonders, that easy? His stomach flutters with hope and excitement, and he's about to ask her to please look at him when a horrible thought enters his mind. Maybe she doesn't, because she hates the idea of marrying him, her own brother, even if it's just a sham. Maybe she despises that she's forced to give up her freedom against her will, once again, even if it's only temporary. Maybe she just can't tolerate the sight of him any longer, since it's his fault they're in this situation to begin with.

It's suffocating, and he starts ripping at the laces of his jerkin, while snapping for air. “I'm so sorry, Sansa,” he says, breathless and desperate. “I leave Winterfell, the North, and you don't ever have to-"

“What?!” Her head snaps up, at last, and wide eyes stare at him. There's only hurt and confusion, and no hint of any sneaking desire. “Why!?”

“Why?! Sansa, I'm not going to-"

“No!” She exclaims, voice raising and eyes glittering in anger. “Don't dare abandoning me again! We agreed to follow through with our plan, no matter the cost!”

“This is a price too high to pay!”

“Not for our freedom, for our safety!” She declares and narrows her eyes, probing him closely. “Aren't you willing to pay it?”

Jon stands up and stumbles over to the hearth, bracing his hands on the mantle, and stares into the fire. “I won't force you into another marriage. This isn't right!”

“You're not forcing me!” 

He hears her approaching, stopping closely behind him, and when she speaks her voice sounds calmer, but he hears the tremor in it anyway. “It won't be lasting, I promise. I wish I could've prevented it, but-”

Shaking his head vehemently, he interjects, “This is my fault. I tried to protect you, but it was all for nothing.” It's another bitter reality, and quickly drying his eyes with the back of his hand, he turns his head halfway towards her. “Everything I do, I'm bound to fail.”

“Don't say that. Don't think that. You have protected me, all of us. We'd be dead if it weren't for you.”

His whole body tenses when she grabs him by the shoulder, trying to spin him around. But he refuses to move, and she sighs, “If we allow this to stand between us, she wins. So please, look at me.”

Unable to deny her, he slowly turns around and the sight of her catches his breath. She's standing so close to his face, too close. It stirs him, forbidden and startling. He should back away, but he doesn't. In hindsight, all the absurd reasons and excuses he had found to explain his feelings away were simply pitiful.

“Just stop acting the lone wolf, leaving your pack out in the cold,” she says, but softens the chide with a fond smile. “And if we look past the strangeness, it's-," she halts when he huffs a sardonic laugh. “It is perfect for our plan,” Sansa argues, annoyingly insistent and rational. “It puts us into a position of strength we haven't been in for a long time. We'd be silly to let this opportunity pass.”

“I know,” he sighs, defeated. “It's only temporary, and as soon as she leaves, we just pretend as if it didn't happen.”

That might be the only way to save himself from going utterly mad, he thinks. He's fairly certain that he can live in perpetual denial, but not if-

Her eyes drop to the floor for a split moment, and anxiety grows in his belly. “We're only still alive, because she needs us,” she begins, her eyes flickering around, unable to meet his for longer than a moment. “But if she learns that she can't hope for her heir because we're not- uhm, trying?” Jon feels his knees go weak from hearing Sansa stammering about the thing he never dared to think of, until now. “We have to act like it for appearances sake.”

A hysterical laugh builds inside him, which threatens to burst out, so he bites his lip, hard and painful. He's supposed to feign not to love her while pretending to do so for appearances sake?!

Sansa misunderstands his suppressed laughter, and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. “Yes, it's all very preposterous. But if we're lucky and persuade Lord Varys to join us, we'd have control over what reaches her ears. But if we can't, we have to be believable until Arya has singled out all his little birds.”

“Sansa,” he groans. “We're lying to everyone and aren't even telling the same lies.”

“We really only lie to her. I'm certain our people will easily believe the truth once it's safe to share it and accept the annulment. We would both be free then to marry two of them, and there's hardly anything as alluring than a crown.”

“Alright,” he moans and rubs his tired face. “And how do we pretend for appearances sake?”

She shrugs. “I don't know, yet. First, we need to decide what to tell our people today, anyway. I haven't come up with much so far, and-"

A hard knock interrupts her, and the next moment the door swings open and a clearly upset Lord Manderly strides in. His eyes immediately find Jon, and he seethes accusatory, “Are you Rhaegar Targaryen’s son? A damned dragon in wolf’s clothes?”


End file.
